We Are What We Live
by WendieZ
Summary: A sequel to "The Gurnius Affair" Part 3 up. Resolution of psychological issues is more tricky than saying "it's okay". Warnings: graphic images of character death and vulgar language.
1. Chapter 1: A Job Only a Madman Would Do

**We Are What We Live**

**By WendieZ**

**Part 1: "A Job Only a Madman or Sadomasochist Would Do"**

_A sequel to the fourth season episode "The Gurnius Affair". Illya has had to do one of the worst things an agent could ever be forced to: for the sake of the mission, he tortured his partner. Solo holds no animosity for the deed, but the pragmatic Russian can't seem to find the justification for it. If Napoleon cannot persuade his private partner to talk about what is troubling him, Mr. Waverly will order him into the hands of the UNCLE psychiatrists, and perhaps, out of the field._

**Act I: "The mission comes first."**

_Room 312 in a hotel somewhere in San Rico _

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to sample the local nightlife with Terry and me?" Napoleon Solo called from the bathroom. A towel girded the handsome dark-haired agent about the hips and he deftly glided a razor across his lathered chin.

Illya Kuryakin sat, one leg crossed over the other, in a wooden and upholstered accent chair at the open balcony doors, facing outward and overlooking the street. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, without turning his head, his chin resting on the knuckles of one hand.

Napoleon studied his partner from the doorway of the bathroom. The characteristically reserved Russian had been silent for most of the return trip back to the hotel. Solo thought, at first, the Nazi-like uniform Kuryakin wore was the impetus for the moodiness, but when a change of clothes had been found for him, it failed to draw him out. "You okay?" he queried, though he was reasonably certain of the answer.

The answer was short, clipped and somewhat terse. "Yes."

Napoleon stepped out into the room to dress into the carefully laid-out clothing on the bed. "Would you mind if I closed the balcony doors? We may be several floors up, but I still have my modesty."

A soft snort of a laugh from the occupant of the chair told Solo, he had managed to wedge a small opening in the closed door of his friend's demeanor.

"What? Was that a snicker I heard? A hint of a chuckle?"

Illya looked over at Napoleon, expressionless. "More like a gag reflex. A completely involuntary response."

"Right. Look, Illya, I know you're stewing about something."

"Perhaps. But if I was, it's not something I want to talk about right now."

"I understand. This was a rough mission, for both of us. I don't want to even think about most of it until we're back in New York."

"Agreed."

"So, why are you sitting there, staring out the window, brooding, when you could be out having a good time? A couple of margaritas and you'll forget what it was you were trying to forget."

"I am not in a 'going-out' mood. Since we weren't able to find the suitcase I brought along, these—" he gestured at his over-sized khakis, "—are the extent of my wardrobe. I would prefer not to sample the local nightlife in someone else's cast-offs. It's bad enough I have to wear them tomorrow to pick up my replacement credentials and passport."

"When did you become such a clothes-horse?"

Illya stood up and closed the balcony doors. "Get dressed for your date, Napoleon. I don't want to go out and I don't want to talk. What I do want to do is go down to the bar and acquire some liquid refreshment for the evening. I can assure you I will be quite placid by the time you return from your tryst with Miss Cook; that is, _if_ you return." The blond-haired agent walked past his companion and out the door without another word.

The dark-haired agent sighed heavily and began to dress.

Solo was putting the final touches on his ascot tie when he heard the key in the door and Kuryakin entered, bottle in hand. Napoleon noted as he turned his head, that the Russian had not brought a glass with him. "No dinner?" he asked quietly.

Illya lifted the bottle of amber-red liquid.

The senior agent made a face. "I don't think I want to be around you tomorrow."

The bottle made a sharp sound as it was set rather heavily onto the table. "Your prerogative."

"You're in a hell of a mood. Can I trust you here by yourself?"

"This isn't the first time I've polished off a bottle on my own. Think of it as Russian-style debriefing."

"We _are_ going to talk about this when we get back home." It was not a question.

Illya nodded slowly. "But tonight it has to go away. And I have to be alone. Please, don't push any further."

Napoleon conceded. "All right, but promise me one thing."

"I know. I'll be right where I'm expected to be. In the bathtub, on my side. I rarely throw up when I'm drunk."

"There's always the chance that it's one of those times. I'd hate to have to tell Waverly of your demise by attempted self-embalming."

Illya turned his back on his friend and headed towards the bathroom. "I need a shower."

"You took one before I did."

"Well, I need another one."

Napoleon stared after him, even after the door closed and he heard the sound of running water. The man he called partner, friend, _brother_, was deeply troubled, but he knew that the man's ethnicity would not allow him to open up until he had weathered what was bound to be a wretched night of alcohol-dampening a dark Russian mood. Solo hoped he would be able to charm Terry Cook into accommodations in her room.

Illya stepped out of the shower stall, briskly rubbing the cotton towel over his wet arms, and caught his reflection in the mirror above the washbowl. His skin was flushed bright pink from the hot water, but he thought he could still detect the ugly prosthetic scar. His hand reached up to touch his right cheek and met moist, smooth skin. He remembered hastily ripping the thing from his cheek as they escaped the mountaintop rubble that had been Gurnius's installation. Why, then did he still see it in the mirror?

_You are over-tired, Illya Nickovetch_, he said silently to the face in the mirror. _You need to sleep. _

_I can't. I'm afraid of the nightmares_, the reflection answered.

_Nightmares are tricks of the subconscious mind. They're not real. _

_They are the ghosts of the past that haunt us when we are fragile. Like now._

_ We are not fragile—! _He protested angrily to the mirror.

But the mirror replied, _We tortured Napoleon to his physical limits. And a part of us reveled in it._

Illya grabbed the washbowl with both hands, knuckles white. _No!_ his mind screamed. He looked up into the mirror again—and saw the palest trace of Nexor's scar on his right cheek. "No—" he whispered as his right hand rose to cover half of his face. He turned from the mirror. In his line of sight, the bottle of rum waited for him, the bedroom light reflected in the clear, rosy golden liquid. There was more than enough there to obliterate the vilest of nightmares. He walked purposefully across the room, ignoring his state of undress, and reached for the neck of the bottle. In a moment, he had disposed of the cork and swallowed a deep draft of the contents, comforted by the harsh burn of the liquid in his throat that brought tears to his eyes and nearly took his breath away. "There will be no haunting tonight—" he murmured fiercely and drank deeply once more.

Napoleon put his key in the lock of his hotel room and turned the key. He looked over at Terry Cook, stylishly attired in a locally purchased white linen sundress. "Illya's liable to be rather surly, especially since he not only missed breakfast but also his appointment with Julio Martinez for his IDs. He was in one of his dismal Russian moods last night and was determined to down a fifth of rum."

"A fifth?" Terry exclaimed. "Why, that'd kill him! Wouldn't it?"

"That's why I'm checking on him. It's not like him to miss a meet, especially one he set up." He opened the door to enter and immediately pulled it shut again, when he saw the occupant of the bed. "Ah, Terry? I think you'd better go back to your room. Mr. Kuryakin isn't exactly in a condition to entertain guests right now."

"Is he all right?"

"Well, he appears to be, but if we went in right now, I believe you'd be seeing a little more of him than he would be comfortable showing you."

"You mean he's naked, huh?" Terry replied, grinning slyly.

Solo sighed heavily. "As a jaybird. Do you mind?"

"Well, I suppose not. Though, it might be fun to see his face when he wakes up and sees me standing there."

"Trust me, Terry. Fun is the last thing it would be. Run along, now. I'll pick you up for lunch."

Napoleon waited until Terry had turned the corner before opening the door again. The Russian lay prone on the mattress, legs sprawled in awkward positions, one arm twisted across the width of the mattress. The other hand was under the pillow with his head. It was definitely not a position conducive to a good night's sleep.

Solo gave his partner a back-handed slap to the bare buttocks. "Time to get up, sleepyhead."

The hand under the pillow moved and a moment later, Napoleon was looking down the barrel of a Walther P38. A harsh voice, thick with displeasure and languor accompanied the weapon. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bullet between your eyes."

Solo tempered his own annoyance. "I'll give you three. Number One, I'm your partner; Number Two, I'm your superior; and Number Three, in your condition, you couldn't put a bullet into the wall. Rum is definitely not your spirit, my friend."

Kuryakin lowered the gun and slowly pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Rum was all they had," he mumbled numbly. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven-thirty. Terry and I—"

Illya shot up from the bed. "_H__ooy na postnom maslye!_(a very vulgar way of saying "shit!")" he spat vehemently and bounded towards the bathroom.

Napoleon followed him. "Illya, it's okay! I took care of it! I got your papers!" He stopped short when he saw his friend staring blankly at the remains of the bathroom mirror and the shards of glass strewn on the floor and in the washbowl. "What happened here? Are you cut anywhere?" He ran a quick scan over the Russian's body, but saw no blood. "Talk to me, partner."

There was a sigh and the voice that responded was subdued. "Actually, I'm at a loss to explain this for the moment."

"There's bottle glass in the sink, too. I've never known you to be a violent or angry drunk. But obviously, someone was both last night." He eyed his partner critically. "Any thoughts?"

Kuryakin stared at the destruction for long moments, his face, a mask. Then he shook his head slowly. "I should find a broom and pan to clean this up. Inform the front desk, and pay for the damage."

"Damn straight you're paying for the damage. But, I'd like you to open a door a little, too. This mission, it really tore a hole into you, didn't it?"

"Evidently, more than even I realized." He took a deep breath. "I don't remember doing this."

"You were blind drunk, that's why."

"I don't think I was. I had had a fair portion of the bottle, but it was quickly losing its appeal."

"So you got mad at the rum for not being vodka. I'd call that—" He gestured at the broken glass "—over-reacting. Which also isn't like you. What was it about this mission that's got you tied up in knots inside? Is it because you had to torture me? That I might hold that against you, against our friendship?"

"And this isn't the time to be having this discussion. You said so yourself last night."

"That was before I saw your artwork in here. Maybe now_ is_ the time to clear the air about a few things before they have a chance to do more harm."

Illya shook his head. "I can't do this now. We have other obligations to finish first; return Miss Cook to the US and report to Mr. Waverly."

"Terry's a big girl. She can leave without our escort. She _got_ here without an escort. And we'll just tell Waverly we need a day or two to finish up."

"And I can wear the same clothes for two more days—"

Napoleon smiled. "Well, right now, you're not wearing _any_ clothes."

"I'll get dressed in a minute. Napoleon, I really would rather finish the mission and go home. Then talk."

"Are you sure? You have me a little worried."

"Yes, I'm sure and you do not need to worry."

"Okay, we'll do it your way, but I do want to tell you one thing: I know you did what you had to do for the mission. And it _is_, first and foremost, about the mission."

Kuryakin nodded. "The mission comes first." He turned from his partner to find his clothing. However, when they were out of sight of each other's faces, both scowled deeply and thought how wrong that statement was in practice.

**Act II: "His current report is a very dry read."**

If Napoleon had not known otherwise, he could have sworn that the conversation between him and his somber partner earlier that morning had been an hallucination. The blond-haired Russian did not seem the least bit hung-over, ate his lunch with his usual enthusiasm, and was actually charming towards Terry. Solo studied the pair as they conversed about cameras and photography. The diversity of his partner's knowledge never ceased to amaze him for Illya seemed versed in everything from subatomic particles to current women's fashions. Napoleon suspected the interest in photography to be a hold-over from the time when Kuryakin had been seeing quite a bit of Marion Raven, an innocent from several years ago. As always, however, the job came first, and Marion eventually went the way of many an agent's love interest.

"You know, Illya," Terry said with one of her impish grins, "I really can't get over how much you looked like that awful Colonel Nexor, especially when you were dressed up in his uniform."

"That was the intention when I was impersonating him," Illya answered noncommittally and looked up, catching Solo's eye for an instant. _Stop this—now, please—_

Napoleon picked up the pitcher of lemonade in the center of the table and filled Terry's glass. "Illya and I have a rule between us that we never discuss a mission until we first put it down on paper. That way we don't influence each other's viewpoints." He turned his head and received a grateful half-smile for the untruth.

Illya held out his glass for the last of the lemonade. "What time did you say our flight was, Napoleon?"

"Three o'clock," Solo reminded him, even though he knew his partner was fully aware of their departure time. The object was to keep Terry from venturing back to details on the mission. "I think we might have a little time to do some last-minute souvenir shopping, don't you think, Illya?"

Kuryakin nodded. "It will give me a chance to find some suitable clothes to wear on the plane, so I don't look quite so much like your poor immigrant cousin. I'll meet you back at the hotel in an hour." He drained his glass and excused himself from the table.

After a minute of watching the lithe, blond agent saunter up the street, Napoleon felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. Terry was looking at him questioningly. "He's all right," he said, trying not to give her cause to doubt his word.

"Of course, he is, Napoleon," she said casually, sipping her lemonade. Then her tone became hard. "I was in that room, too, Napoleon, and scared out of my mind. I saw his face when he was doing what he did to you. And it wasn't the face of your friend; it was Col. Nexor."

Solo was irritated. "And if it hadn't been for my _friend_, we wouldn't be here talking about him. He not only saved your life, and mine, _again_, he saved the world, _again_. I think he's allowed to have his moods."

"I'm going to be glad to get back to my photography," Terry mused wistfully, running her finger over the rim of her glass of lemonade.

Napoleon took a deep drink and wished the lemonade had been a pitcher of _Tom Collins_(a tall drink of the 60s made with lemon juice, sugar and gin).

Illya was in the lobby of the hotel, reading the local newspaper when Napoleon and Terry returned from souvenir hunting. Even behind the newspaper, Napoleon could see that his partner had chosen to spurge a little when selecting his attire. "What's new?" the senior agent asked indicating the paper.

The younger agent folded the newsprint carefully before he stood up. "There's a Jai Alai match tonight. If we were staying an extra day, it would have been interesting to see it."

Napoleon smiled at the casual slacks in a beige linen and the cornflower-blue short-sleeved straight-hemmed shirt. "I approve of the attire. You had help?"

Kuryakin chuckled. "I knew you were going to ask me that. Actually, I did happen upon a helpful sales clerk who recommended these items. She said the shirt brought out the color of my eyes." He looked at Terry, who was staring back at him with a rapt expression, and raised his eyebrows.

Napoleon also looked at Terry. "Your clerk knew what she was about, my friend," he said and turned back to his partner. The playfully smug expression on the Russian's lips made Solo roll his eyes. "Though I kind of liked those baggy khakis."

"Since you lost all of my clothes, I'm going to let you reimburse me for these. I lost one of my best black turtlenecks."

"It's a shame you only have five more in your drawer at home. Besides, I'm not the one who lost your clothes. The car you had them in went up with the mountain."

Kuryakin waved him off and sat down again. "Never mind. Anyway, I'm 'packed', essentially, and I plan to continue reading my newspaper while you and Miss Cook gather your belongings." He opened the paper, crossed his leg, and began to scan the newsprint once more.

Napoleon stared down at him for a moment, confused about the man who looked like his partner, but was not acting very much like the dour Russian he usually was. Then Terry grabbed his arm and he had to follow her to the stairwell.

Solo had little time to observe his friend on the flight back to New York City, for the plane was full after the stop in Miami and they had not been able to book three seats near each other. Napoleon sat near the front of the plane, just behind first-class, with Terry while the Russian was relegated to a seat in the back. Illya didn't seem to mind and produced a paperback novel as if he'd been expecting a singular ride the whole time.

The plane touched down on a Kennedy Airport runway shortly after nine p.m. Though tired from the day's activities and the forced inactivity during the plane ride home, Solo felt obligated to, at least, make the suggestion of going for a nightcap before dropping her off at the hotel near UNCLE headquarters. He was secretly glad when she admitted to being tired as well and anxious to get to her hotel. He was not expecting his partner to exit the taxi to begin the five block walk to headquarters.

Hurriedly paying the cab driver, he half-ran to catch up with Illya, nearly a full block up the street. "Hey—" he called, but resisted the urge to catch his friend's arm.

The blond agent paused. "What is it, Napoleon?" he said, not turning.

"Look, I know you're cheap, but I planned on paying the cab fare for both of us. Why did you get out?"

"Perhaps, I preferred to walk back to headquarters."

"Perhaps you wanted to set yourself up as a target instead."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm equally as armed as you. It obviously didn't occur to you that I might want some solitary time to hash out what I plan to put in my report."

"Would you care to hash it out over a drink instead?"

"With you?"

"That was my idea."

"I'd rather not."

"Coffee, then. I'll get one of the secretaries to make us a fresh pot."

"Do what you'd like, Napoleon. I don't plan to make it a long night."

"How long are you going to put off the inevitable?"

"As long as necessary."

"You're forcing me to pull rank on you."

"And you misunderstand me. I'm not trying to escape the conversation we need to have. Only delay it until the circumstances are better suited for it."

Napoleon suddenly had a horrible notion. "Illya, are you contemplating ending our partnership? Asking Mr. Waverly to split us up?"

"No, but I haven't dismissed the idea that after our upcoming conversation, it may be you doing the contemplating." The blond Russian's shoulders slumped slightly. "You see, therefore, my reluctance." Suddenly, he was unbelievably weary, both in body and mind. "I've changed my mind. I'm going home." Illya walked away from his partner without a goodbye and turned down the next cross-street. Napoleon stared after him in shocked bewilderment, wondering what his partner, friend, and brother thought was so unconscionably unforgivable to warrant ending their partnership.

The next morning, Napoleon arrived at UNCLE headquarters at 8:00am with Terry Cook to find Kuryakin already ensconced behind his typewriter. The deep furrow between the narrowed eyes told Solo that Illya was struggling with the report, for he typed a line or two and then stared at the page for twice the length of time.

Solo regarded him with sympathy. He was not looking forward to rendering his own report. He caught Illya's attention with a wave. "Mr. Waverly wants to see us at 9:00."

"I'll be there," the Russian replied without looking up. There was a quick glance at his wristwatch and the typing speed picked up its pace.

Solo escorted Terry to the commissary for coffee and hopefully, a sweet roll or doughnuts.

Terry Cook was in the middle of her "freedom of the press" tirade when Illya entered Waverly's office, UNCLE's gift to her carefully concealed behind his back and a file folder in his hand. The camera slipped surreptitiously onto the table behind Solo as the CEA was saying:

"It wouldn't make any difference, Terry."

She was nonplused. "It wouldn't?" she said and turned to see Napoleon shaking his head in affirmation.

Kuryakin took his place at her right. "Even if you went to the newspapers, they wouldn't believe you."

Solo added quickly: "Saving the world from a mind-grabbing machine. Think anyone would take you seriously?"

"Unless you had the film to back you up," Illya said as a lead-in for his partner's presentation.

Solo brandished s new 35mm SLR camera identical to the one she had broken saving his life. "With the gratitude and compliments of UNCLE."

She lit up, smiling broadly, "Oh!" As soon as the camera hit her hands, she began to focus and snapped a picture.

Mr. Waverly objected, a signal for Kuryakin to gently remove the camera from her hand and remove the film from the camera. He returned the empty camera to its owner, then without another word, gave Mr. Waverly the file folder and left as silently as he had entered.

Mr. Waverly opened the folder, glanced at it briefly and looked up his CEA. "Mr. Solo, why don't you escort Miss Cook to reception; then I want to see you back here immediately."

It was in that moment, Napoleon realized that his partner was no longer in the room. "Right away, sir," he replied softly and showed Terry to the door.

Mr. Waverly opened the folder once more and began to read, his frown deepening with the passing narrative.

Five minutes later, Solo sat across the huge round table from his boss. He had a reasonably good idea why Waverly had called him back.

The head of UNCLE New York began without preamble. "Mr. Kuryakin has requested two weeks' vacation time, effective immediately. This is rather unusual for him, don't you agree?"

Napoleon nodded slowly. "This was a very difficult mission for both of us."

"Indeed, Mr. Solo. I suspected it would be and it does seem to have taken quite a toll on Mr. Kuryakin."

"I know. What does he say in his report?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, but I have noticed in the past, Mr. Kuryakin's writing becomes more succinct and coldly scientific as mission events affect him on a more personal level. His current report here is a very dry read, Mr. Solo."

"What are you suggesting, sir? I don't think it would be fair to subject the psych staff to Illya's temper if you order him in for an evaluation."

"Mr. Kuryakin will allow himself to be evaluated if I decide that it's necessary. That's why we are having this conversation. Mr. Kuryakin states blatantly that it was necessary to put you under torture as part of his charade as Nexor. How do you respond to that?"

"Naturally, I would have rather he hadn't, but I know Illya did what he had to do. Otherwise, Miss Cook and I would have both been killed outright. Besides, I set up the circumstances. In his place, I would have done the same to him."

"Is he aware of that?"

"Of course. But something is still eating at him. I told him that we needed to talk about this, and he agreed. Looks like he's changed his mind."

"Unchange it, Mr. Solo. We are in a dirty business, and sometimes we have to get our hands very dirty. If Mr. Kuryakin won't unburden himself, I will unleash him on the psychologists. The last thing I need is to have an agent implode in a difficult situation. You have a week. If your methods don't work, Dr. Pirelli and his methods will have him for the second week of his vacation."

Solo stood up. "That's quite an incentive, sir. I'll see what I can do."

Napoleon was not surprised to find their shared office vacant. A quick call to Wanda at reception told him his partner was still in the building, unless he had left by one of the other two exits. Two more inquiries confirmed it. That left the commissary and the labs. It was nearing lunchtime, so Napoleon decided to check the commissary first: if Illya was there, he'd found him, if not, he could take lunch to him.

He found the Russian in his lab; papers, notebooks and journals before him, a pencil between his teeth, and a slide rule being deftly manipulated by knowing hands. Though Napoleon was certain his partner was aware of his presence, the bespectacled blond-haired agent did not look up.

"I brought lunch," Solo offered.

At the sound of Napoleon's voice, Illya did look up. "The Special must be pastrami again. I could smell it from down the hall."

"I even brought you your own condiments, so you can't complain about my sandwich doctoring."

"Amazing. You actually can be trained. Thank you." The glasses came off and Kuryakin accepted the brown bag. "I thought perhaps you and Miss Cook had lunch plans."

Solo took a bite of his sandwich. "Is that why you took off like shot?"

"My report is finished, and for once, I was going to let you do your own paperwork."

"Mr. Waverly said you requested vacation."

"I think I'm entitled to some time off. Is that a problem?"

"I don't know. Got any plans?"

"I thought I might sail up the coast to the Cape Cod area." Kuryakin addressed his over-stuffed sandwich with a slight smile.

Solo looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Really? When are you going to leave?"

"I need a few things first."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. A boat would be nice. And someone to help me sail it."

"Is this your round-about way of asking me to come along with you?"

"Only if you're willing. I'm sure I could find other options."

"We haven't had the talk we need to have."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then, I think it's an excellent time to sail up the coast. But I have a condition. No bullshit, evasion, or flat out refusing to answer the questions I have."

"That's a rather presumptuous condition."

"Take it or leave it. You dropped a bombshell in my lap last night and walked away without an explanation. You say we are _zadushevny (Russian for "one behind the soul", or confidant, but it means more than that to Russians_). If that's true, then I deserved better than that from you."

Kuryakin laid the remainder of his sandwich on its wrapper and looked up at Solo, his blue eyes apologetic. "I know you do."

"What could you possibly think you've done that once I hear it, I would consider ending our partnership? Something that you believe would damage the trust I have in you?"

"I accept your condition. My only request is that you wait until we've set sail."

"So I can't walk out on you."

Kuryakin folded the wrapper over his sandwich, no longer hungry. "Something like that."

Solo watched him stuff it back into the bag. "And you're afraid I will."

"Something like that."

"Why?"

Illya threw the bag into the trash and walked to the door. "Because _I_ would." He hung his lab coat on a nearby hook. "I'll meet you at the dock at four. The tide will be going out then; I checked."

"Do you want me to get the food and the beer?"

With his back still to Solo, Illya shook his head. "If you would, just vodka for me. And I'll get the food. The greengrocer near my apartment has some exquisite oranges he promised to save me."

"I could stop at the deli for that corned beef you like. And I'll pick up some steaks."

"That would be fine. I'll take care of the rest. I'll see you later."

Napoleon watched the back of the blond head until it disappeared around a corner. It sounded like they had just agreed on the menu for a farewell dinner.

**Act III: "You're not**** a sadist monster."**

Napoleon hoisted a case of imported beer onto the deck of his forty-foot masthead sloop appropriately named _Pursang._ It was a prized possession, for it was the only thing he owned that gave him the ability to escape from the horrors of his day job. He greeted Kuryakin, who was climbing the several steps up from the galley. "You're early."

The Russian shrugged. "I saw no reason to waste time in my apartment, when I could be enjoying the breeze off of the Hudson River, even if it's coming from New Jersey."

"Snob," Napoleon returned good-naturedly. This was a good marina at a good price and was fairly accessible to the points he most often cared to visit along the shore. The trip to Cape Cod was to be one of the longest voyages he and the _Pursang_ had attempted. "What did you bring besides some exquisite oranges?"

"More fruit and vegetables, mostly. I never seem to lose the excitation of seeing produce that doesn't look like it's come from a garbage heap."

"And not waiting in lines to get it, I'll bet, "Napoleon finished the thought.

"I do not miss that part of the Soviet Union."

"You're becoming more bourgeois the longer I know you," the American said with a chuckle.

"I didn't ask you along on this cruise to be insulted," the Russian retorted, but he had a slight smile as well.

"It comes with the boat. Besides you have a lot of nerve being insulted while standing aboard a rather expensive rowboat plotting a course to a rather posh area of New England."

"Point taken. I promise not to make any blatant Socialist remarks for the entire trip."

Napoleon smiled broadly. "That'll be a welcome change," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Though he knew he was being teased, Illya scowled. "I amend that last statement to not include the present company."

"Too late, Illya. I'm holding you to your word."

"Fine. There are plenty of other things I can expound on, at length."

"I can always throw you overboard. It's a long swim back."

Kuryakin just shook his head and picked up the case of beer to stow below in the galley. His friend was making light banter, but Illya wasn't altogether sure he wasn't going to be tossed off the boat eventually anyway.

After an hour of going through the checklist, clearing the wharf at the marina under power, and hoisting the sails, the two agents were able to relax and enjoy the brisk wind in their faces and the cool of the evening.

"Looks like tomorrow's going to be pretty nice, weather-wise," Napoleon commented from behind the wheel. He pointed to the beginnings of a red sunset.

Illya looked to the west, then closed his eyes and turned away.

"What's wrong?"

The Russian shook his head. "Red skies still send chills down my spine. When I was young, it was fire that made the sky glow red and orange like that." He sighed heavily. "Sail on for about an hour, and then let's find a place to anchor for the night."

Solo studied his blond-haired companion. Tension was evident in the normally stoic features. "Illya, whatever this is, I'll understand."

"Don't even begin to make a value judgment like that until you've heard me out."

"Maybe we should look for that anchoring place now. You look like you're ready to jump out of your skin."

"Perhaps you're right. I'll start lowering the sails." Kuryakin went forward to prepare the headsail. By the time, he had lowered the mainsail, Napoleon had maneuvered the sloop from the center of the river to a more sheltered area and was ready to drop anchor.

Napoleon went down to the galley and brought up a pair of beer bottles. He offered one to his partner, but Illya shook his head. "Some vodka?" Again, the Russian shook his head. "Should I not be drinking?" Solo asked cautiously.

"As you like," Illya said softly.

Napoleon took one of the benches at the stern. Pointedly, Illya positioned himself in front of Solo and lowered himself to the deck, cross-legged, to sit at his partner's feet. The dark-haired agent looked down at the towhead before him. "There's some kind of significance to this, I assume?"

"If for no other reason than you believe my sincerity."

"I always do. Tell me what's troubling you, my friend."

Kuryakin folded his hands and began: "Before attempting to impersonate Nexor, I studied various acting styles. A countryman, Konstantin Stanislavski pioneered what is now called 'the method', where the actor tries to emulate his character's emotions and motivations. This seemed the quickest and best way of trying to impersonate Nexor and time was of the essence.

"I tried to visualize what sets of circumstances might have come together to mold this person into what he was."

"_Was_ Nexor an actual clone of his father?"

Illya shook his head. "I don't believe so. While the Nazis were doing research in this area, from what I read in current research, the process is not easy. Failure rates are high even with the more advanced technology available today. I believe the woman or even, perhaps, women they used to be impregnated by the elder Nexor were Aryan with similar facial features to his. The child most closely resembling the elder Nexor's childhood pictures would be the one to undergo the training and indoctrination to take his father's place at the proper time."

"How is it that you resemble the younger Nexor so much?"

A small smile touched the Russian's lips. "I don't, really. I have the same general physical description, but you would easily tell us apart one from the other."

"But, von Etske saw the real Nexor. How did you pass his scrutiny? And what does this have to do with what you feel you need to confess to me?"

"I need to preface what I must say to you. Please, hear me out."

"I'm sensing a long oratory. I'm going to get us some tall glasses of water. Hang on for a minute."

Patiently, Illya obliged his friend. He set the glass down beside him and continued: "How did I pass von Etske's scrutiny, you ask. It was something I worried about when Brown, the THRUSH representative, insisted on confirmation by von Etske. As it turned out, my portrayal was largely a matter of attitude, rather than physical appearance. If there was any doubt in von Etske's mind it was more than compensated by a commanding presence. I had to _be_ Nexor, because I radiated the _essence _of Nexor."

"And you extrapolated the essence of Nexor by this method acting technique."

"Yes. Napoleon, if this child of Nexor's went through just a portion of what the psychologists told me he would have, then despite the finished product, the boy was no less a victim of his father's tortures, than the people he killed during the war."

"The child was turned into a sadistic monster." Solo mused, and then fully realized what his friend was saying. "But, you're _not _a sadist monster, Illya."

"When they brought you and Miss Cook into the control room, I wasn't sure how we going to play it out. You knew Nexor was dead and I would be in his place."

Solo went through the scene in his mind. "I figured a connection would give you a reason to 'toy' with me rather than kill me outright like Brown wanted you to do."

"You had no way of knowing how Gurnius would respond."

"But I was counting on you knowing. It bought us time."

"Exactly. Time for me to torture you."

"Yes, but, you know my limits, and I trusted you not to go over them unless there was no other way. And you didn't."

Illya stood up, his shoulders hunched in contrition. "I did my job too well, Napoleon. My portrayal of Nexor was too good. He was a sadistic monster, and in his likeness, I _did_ become a sadistic monster."

Solo stood as well to look his friend in the eyes. "What do you mean?"

"The definition of sadist, Napoleon. 'One who enjoys inflicting pain on another.' How do I say it any plainer that that?"

"You'll have to because I don't believe what you're alluding to."

With a suddenness and fury that caught Solo off guard, Illya growled at him: "_Ya muchyv vas, i ya nasolodzhuvavsya tsym__**!**_(Ukranian) _Ich quälte du und ich genoss es__**!**(German)_ _**¡**__Te torturaron y lo disfruté__**!**__(Spanish)__ Je vous torturé et j'ai aimé ça__**!**__(French)__ Sas vasanísti kan kai to apólafsa.__**!**_(Greek) How many languages do you want to hear it in? I tortured you—and God help me, I enjoyed it!"

Napoleon stared at his friend, at the fearfully anxious expression on the normally placid face, and the words—

"Walk away from me, Napoleon. How can you ever trust me again?"

Napoleon sighed deeply as he tried to navigate through his own jumble of emotions, including a blossoming anger. "No, Illya. I won't walk away. But I have to think about what you said. I'm going to sleep out here on the deck tonight. I want you to go below and use the bed. But close it off from the rest of the cabin."

"If anyone should spend the night out here, it should be me."

"And if you did, how would I be sure you'd be here in the morning?"

"It would be suicide to try to swim to shore in the dark."

"Yes, it would, but you'd do it. You'd make sure I walked away. I don't like people making my decisions for me."

"In the end, you must see that walking away is the only thing you _can_ do."

"You're so quick to write yourself off."

"And you're being insufferably quixotic about it."

"We'll continue this conversation in the morning. I'm glad you got this off your chest. Sleep well." Napoleon, though angry, tried not to make the remark sound sarcastic, but failed.

"_Ty chertov mudak,_" Illya murmured as he walked past Solo towards the galley steps.

Napoleon's temper flared. He caught Illya's arm and spun him around. As the Russian faced him, he slammed his other fist into the Russian's jaw. Illya fell backwards down the galley steps, and hit the deck below with grunt of pain. "_Now_, I'm a fuckin' asshole, Kuryakin. You were determined to piss me off tonight, and you succeeded. Now, get your goddam ass up off the floor and do what I told you do."

Without a word, Illya pulled himself to his feet and stumbled forward to the sleeping area, where he pulled the curtain divider across the opening. Solo heard him crawl onto one of the mattresses and lay down. Only after there was silence for five minutes, did he descend to the lower level to grab a blanket and eight bottles of beer.

**Act IV: "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, PhD, captain in the Soviet Navy, former GRU agent"**

The sun had just peeked over the upper Hudson River area, New York City skyline when Napoleon climbed down into the cabin and pulled back the curtain from the sleeping area. His partner sat against one wall, head turned towards the small forward windows as if looking out over the bow.

"Illya, are you awake?" Solo said softly, not so much for Kuryakin's sake, but for his own headache.

The blond-haired man turned his head. "You're up early," he observed with a low voice.

"I didn't sleep."

"I know. Neither did I. You did a lot of pacing."

"How's the lip?"

"It'll heal."

"I thought I'd find you down here, passed out from that bottle of scotch I brought along. I know it'd take more than a bottle of vodka to do that."

"You know I detest scotch."

"I thought, perhaps, you'd make an exception; like you did with the rum."

"I didn't think it was prudent to compound one error with another."

Solo sat down on the mattress opposite the Russian. "What happened that night in San Rico to make you break the mirror?"

"I told you, I don't remember breaking the mirror."

"Okay then, before, when you came back from the bar and headed directly into the bathroom for a second shower."

A small frown formed. "I could still smell the stench of that uniform on me; it made me sick to my stomach. The whole damned scenario made me feel unclean, tainted." The blond head bowed and his right hand touched his cheek. "And I couldn't get rid of it. No matter what I did, it was still there."

"What was still there?"

"The scar. That despicable sign of the son's connection to the father. They must have sliced open the boy's cheek and instead of allowing it to heal, they reopened the wound until layers of scar tissue formed."

"But on you it was just a prosthetic. As a matter of fact, you pulled it off just after the building blew up."

"But when I looked in the mirror, _it was there_. I don't know how, but it was there."

Solo sat back, understanding now why the mirror had been broken. "What do you see in a mirror now?"

Kuryakin shrugged. "As little as possible."

"Illya, look at me." The expression on the face that looked back at him was a closed book. "You thought saw a scar that wasn't there. Isn't it possible, that when you had to convince Gurnius and Brown you were Nexor by torturing me, you thought you felt pleasure but it wasn't really there?"

"You're being insufferably quixotic again."

"Don't you think you could have gotten wrapped up in the moment, putting yourself in the place of a sadistic monster, who had been abused by his keepers all his life; _thinking_ like him. How could you not begin to feel what he would have felt?"

"And _that's_ supposed to justify it?"

"Something has to, or Mr. Waverly is going to pull you in for psychiatric evaluation. He gave me a week to help you find the answer on your own."

"No pressure, there."

"I want to help, Illya. We are _zadushevny. _Brothers_. _There isn't anything we can't say to one another_._"

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Kuryakin's mouth. "Even if it gets him a clout in the mouth."

"Well, I was mad and you were baiting me. You asked for it."

"That damned optimism gets to me sometimes. Not to mention, your idealist notions."

"Something has to counter that dour Russian pessimism of yours."

"So, where do we go from here?"

"Well, not to sound too much like a shrink, I think we should go to the beginning."

"The beginning of what?"

"The beginning of you, my friend. I have you bound by your word and to be blunt, I've always wanted to know."

"Then, pick up a history of Eastern Europe after World War I. My story is there. Nothing exceptional or out of the ordinary."

"To you, maybe. We grew up half a world apart in geography, worlds apart in ideology. And still, here we are: friends, partners and brothers. I know you, but by the same token, I don't. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, PhD, captain in the Soviet Navy, former GRU agent; sometimes, I feel like I don't know you, at all."

There was an inviting smile on Napoleon's lips, but it was not the charming smile he used to entice the ladies. It was a smile of deep respect and the promise that any secrets shared would remain secret. Still, there was reluctance from the Russian.

"Oh, Napoleon, you don't need my family history to know me. How we live and what we do with our lives is who we are."

"I still have questions. There are things I'm curious about."

"Such as?"

Napoleon looked back at his friend in surprise. Was he actually offering to answer personal questions? For a moment, he couldn't even think of one. "Well, your name, for one thing."

The question was met by the raise of a single eyebrow. "What about my name?"

"It's the Russian version of Elijah, the Old Testament prophet. I thought you were an atheist like a good Soviet Communist should be."

"I had little to do with picking my own given name, Napoleon. Stalin may have outlawed the Orthodox Church, but he couldn't stifle the religious beliefs of the people. My grandparents, who raised me for a time, were devoutly religious."

"And your mother?" Napoleon said gently, for he already sensed the answer.

"I never knew my mother. She died shortly after I was born, a result of the _Holodomor_."

"_Holodomor?_"

"It's Ukrainian for 'murder by hunger', a devastating famine that lasted over two years. There are suppositions that it was one of Stalin's engineered retaliations for the rise of Ukrainian nationalism. Millions of Ukrainians died of starvation."

"It's remarkable, then, that you survived. But it also explains your love affair with food. What about your father? Nicholai Kuryakin?"

Illya looked down at his hands. "There is no Nicholai Kuryakin. I'm the result of a rape upon my mother. Her name was Nikola Vasyivna Kurakina. I, therefore, have a matronymic, albeit a little skewed, instead of a patronymic."

"Making you rather unique, I would think."

"Probably not. The _Holodomor_ was literal hell for the Ukrainian people. Times like those bring out the worst in some human beings."

"So, after your mother died, Grandmother and Grandfather Kuryakin raised you in Kiev."

"Yes, but the family name is not spelled correctly in English. When I came to this country, someone in charge of my paperwork misread 'ah' for 'yah' in the Cyrillic handwriting and added a 'Y' to the spelling."

"And added an extra 'L' in your first name because they thought it looked nicer in English?"

"A distinct possibly, knowing you Americans. My family name in the Soviet Union is Kurakin, which is actually a noble name. The family was a princely line that served the ruling families in Russia for centuries."

"So, that's where you get that haughty attitude of yours. There are people who think you really _are _a prince, too." Solo said with a teasing smile.

"I'm afraid 'Ice Prince' doesn't count." Illya slid to the edge of the bed. "Prince or not, I need to relieve myself and I would dearly love something to eat."

Napoleon stood to allow Kuryakin to pass. "Why don't you slice up some fruit and I'll scramble some eggs? There are croissants and strawberry jam in the cupboard."

"That calls for tea." Illya went into the tiny bathroom, while Solo took provisions from the refrigerator and placed them on the counter. By the time Illya was finished, Napoleon had a skillet of fluffy scrambled eggs, and the teapot was nearing the boil. The Russian quickly halved a huge grapefruit, and set the table.

"Who taught you to drink your tea with jam in it?" The senior agent asked as he watched his partner stir his cup of strong tea.

"I was in University before both tea and jam were affordable enough for me to drink it this way. Before the end of the war, we were lucky if there was suitable water and bread to eat." His gaze turned inward and he smiled fondly. "Except when I lived with the _Romani_. They had ways of getting enough food to survive."

Napoleon looked at him with surprise. "I always wondered if the Gypsies were more than just 'fascinating' friends to you."

"My mother's mother was full-blood _tsigani,__(Ukranian for gypsy) a Ruska Roma. _I suspect she was the one who gave me my name. The prophet Elijah is a prominent figure in _Romani _religious beliefs. Perhaps she thought it would give me some kind of amelioration for the circumstances of my birth."

"What about your grandfather? Was he a _Rom_, too?"

"When I was older, I learned that he had been a member of the peasant-based _Borobist_ party, but I don't believe he was a peasant or a _Rom_; not with Kurakin as a family name. My grandfather was executed for his Nationalist beliefs in the Great Purge as a traitor to the Motherland. My grandmother was sent to a labor camp. I was smuggled to live with my grandmother's sister, who then took me to the _Ruska Romani_ camps."

"How old were you when you went to live with your grandmother's people?"

"Eight or nine, but I looked like I was barely six years old."

"A side-effect of not getting enough to eat."

"I made up for it with the _tsigani. _And I learned many things from them. That time was, as you Americans say, 'like I had died and gone to heaven'."

Solo saw what was coming. "Then, the Nazis came."

Illya's demeanor sobered. "Hitler made it a point to try to annihilate my grandmother's people. He nearly succeeded."

"How did you escape being sent to the concentration camps?" Solo asked, knowing that his partner had no tattoo on his forearm.

Kuryakin made a sound that was a cross between a growl of distaste and a chuckle of irony. "The Nazis have to have been the most smugly self-righteous, blindly hypocritical sons-of-bitches the world has ever known. They found a Ukrainian Gypsy child who, by their twisted, perverse standards would have been a prime candidate for the camps, but because my hair was fair and my eyes blue, they saw me as a prospect for 're-Germanization' back into Aryan society. _Chertov ublyudki__**!**_"(fucking bastards) he spat.

"Playing the part of Nexor must have been doubly hard for you then."

"At first, it was just an assignment. I've had difficult assignments before. But then I began to feel a kind of exhilaration in having nearly everyone afraid of me. And playing up to Gurnius' narcissistic ego—it was as if I could manipulate him as well. The so-called 'fun', however, ended when you and Miss Cook were brought in."

"I don't think you lost as much control over the situation as you think you did. You definitely had Gurnius eating out of your hand."

"But, I couldn't get him to leave that damn room!—I was trying to stall as much as I could—"

Napoleon laid a hand on his friend's arm, feeling the tension in the taut muscle. "I know you were."

The blond-haired agent looked up, a pained expression in the blue eyes. "At the same time, a thought flashed through my mind, that finally, _you_ were the one getting hurt—not me. And there was a sense of satisfaction to it, like, a score being evened out." Illya lowered his head, shaking it sullenly. "I don't understand why I would have such feelings."

"Why shouldn't you feel a little gratified that finally, I took a turn in the pain-receiving line? Do you think I enjoy sitting at your bedside wondering when you're going to wake up from yet, another serious injury? And furthermore, why would you think, roles being reversed, that you wouldn't have the same understanding of your partner's feelings that I do?"

Solo stood up from the table. "Food for thought, my friend." He collected the used plates and utensils. "Now, if I may take leave of _Your Grace_, it's been a long, grueling night for both of us, and I, for one, could use a nap before we raise anchor and continue the voyage. If you're feeling helpful, you can take care of the dishes."

Illya nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I will. And you can stop with the nobility references. The only reason you know, is because I promised to answer your questions."

"I never asked you if you were a count. You brought that up on your own."

"Never mind. You're going to have fun with it no matter what I say."

Napoleon grinned. "You bet I am. Are you going to sleep?"

"No, I think I'll find a shady spot up on deck. Enjoy your nap."

The sun was overhead when Solo came up on deck. He found his friend, hair wet and matted down, sitting cross-legged on the deck, studying the map.

Illya looked up. "Good afternoon, Napoleon."

"You look like you've been swimming."

Kuryakin chuckled softly. "Very astute. You should be a spy."

"Smart ass. Have you charted a course for us?"

"All marked. If the wind stays like this, we should be able to make the Sound easily by dinner time." Illya handed the map up to his partner. "Do you want lunch first or shall I hoist the sails?"

"I'll have a sandwich later. Did you think about our talk earlier?"

"Of course."

"Did you come to any conclusions?"

"Actually, yes. I should never make blanket promises where you're concerned."

"I'm sorry you felt pressured. I thought it was necessary to know your background. Psychologists are saying more and more that our formative years mold who we are." The dark-haired agent smiled. "See? I do read occasionally."

"No doubt, it was an article in Playboy magazine."

"They've got good articles, Illya!" Napoleon protested.

"I'm sure they do. So, how has my childhood molded me, Dr. Erikson?"(Danish/German/American developmental psychologist)

"I think losing your family before you were twelve has had a profound effect on you. You're a loner, for the most part, and you avoid forming relationships."

"I am self-reliant and my work doesn't allow the luxury of forming lasting relationships."

"Everyone you ever cared for in your life left you alone to fend for yourself."

Illya didn't like the turn of the conversation. "It's not like they had a choice in the matter," he replied stiffly.

"What happened when the Germans tried to place you with a family?"

"The fact that I entered this country as a Soviet citizen should make the answer to your question obvious. And, incidentally, for the record, I've had quite enough of your psychoanalysis." Kuryakin stood up and headed for the galley. "I need some lunch. I'll help with the sails later."

Napoleon watched his partner descend the stairs and sighed. He had pushed a little too hard and Illya had retreated into one of his Russian snits. On the other hand, what had his friend been expecting? A week with the UNCLE psychologists would make his prodding look like banter. He followed the sulking Slavic-Gypsy down to the galley.

Kuryakin looked up from his meal preparation, a "back-off" expression on his face.

"Nice little defense mechanism you have going there," Napoleon said nonchalantly.

"What do you want from me, Napoleon? I've been trying to forget the joys of my so-called 'formative' years and you want to dredge it all up again."

"This affair has already dredged it up. I'm thinking the Nazi attempt to make you into a good little _deutscher_ _K__nabe_ (German boy) was a defining moment in your life, too. Or you wouldn't have reduced it to a sarcastic comment. What were you, twelve?"

"Eleven," Illya said softly. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"If you don't tell me, I can guarantee you'll be telling the UNCLE doctors. And I know if you don't talk to me now, you won't later. So, if you refuse, I'll turn this boat around and order you back to headquarters."

"Well, if you insist on playing the 'rank' card, I guess, I'll have to comply."

"_Now_, who's being a fuckin' asshole? Do you think I'm enjoying this?"

"In your own under-handed way, yes. You said before, you always wanted to know."

"What about a bargain, then? You can ask me all the personal questions you want to on the way back."

"I already know about your childhood, Napoleon. And if I didn't, based on your current behavior, I could extrapolate back to your 'formative' years," Illya answered, gesturing the quotation marks for "formative". "Don't you understand? Some things are best left undisturbed."

"And the effects subjected to a liberal 'pickling' at regular intervals."

"It's served me well enough over the years."

"I'd hate to see your liver." Solo sat down on the bench behind the table and folded his hands. "Illya," he said with deep emotion, "tell me; how is it that you can trust me with your life and your soul, but not with your past?"

The blond-haired Russian turned and stared down at his friend. "You said it yourself. 'Worlds apart.' What were _you_ doing when you were eleven years old?"

"Obviously, not the same thing as you. So, what is it; shame or jealousy?"

"That's a typically American conclusion. I am not ashamed of who I am, nor am I jealous of who you are. Quite the opposite, actually."

"I apologize, it was typically American of me. I've asked you before not to hold it against me."

"I try not to." A small smile touched the Russian's lips. "Sometimes it's harder than you know."

"I appreciate the effort. So, tell me what happened when the Nazis tried to Germanize a tenacious, clever, and proud Ukrainian/Gypsy boy." Napoleon's smile matched the man standing over him.

"Napoleon, you are a thorn in my side. And a stubborn, manipulative scoundrel. But you are also _zadushevny._" He heaved a deep sigh. "And you are right. How can I not trust you with my past, when I trust you with everything else?"

"Let me finish making lunch and you grab a couple of beers. Food always has a positive effect on you."

"It's a love-affair, remember?"

A few minutes later, the two were engaged in the demolition of a pair of thick corned-beef sandwiches and beer chasers.

Illya put his sandwich aside and emptied half of his beer in a single breath. "I just noticed; this is German beer."

"Well, they do have quite a few redeeming qualities."

"I know. Evil has no nationality; my own government killed my grandfather and my mother." He finished the bottle of beer. "There were thousands of us the Nazis took; Poles, mostly, but Ukrainians, Slavs, Czechs, too; any child that _looked _Aryan. I was still small for my age and could pass for eight or nine. I was adopted into a military family in Berlin."

"Explains why you speak German like a native."

"My adoptive parents were given instructions to beat me if I didn't learn the language, adopt the culture. Fortunately, by then, the Soviet Army was advancing towards Berlin. I was not aware of why, but I knew the people in Berlin were afraid. Many families were leaving the city for the safety of the out-lying country. We stayed because my foster father was in the military, but his wife begged him to leave. He finally consented, but we would have to leave without him.

"We were to board a westbound train, but when she tried to pull me on board with her, I ran away, back into the city to the house we'd lived in. He was still in the house. He asked me why I was there. Didn't I remember him telling me that the Russians were coming and if they captured us they would do terrible things to us?

"I looked directly into his eyes and told him that I couldn't wait for the Russian army to come and liberate me from him. I believe now that he and his wife had no idea they had adopted a Russian-born child. I suppose, they expected me to be Polish like so many others were.

"He lifted me up by the shirt and called me a _Russische Sohn einer Hure, _a Russian son of a whore."

"His affection ran deep," Napoleon commented sarcastically.

"Not as deep as the Gypsy knife I impaled him on."

Solo opened his mouth, and then shut it before the oath slipped out. More under control, he ventured, "You were only eleven and—" The eyes that looked back at him were ice-cold.

"I killed that Nazi pig—" Illya whispered fiercely and for a moment, he was that eleven year-old boy fighting his own private war. "_I ya radiy__̆__, shcho ya zrobyv tse_." (And I'm glad that I did it) The boy became a man again and the man sighed softly. "It was the first time I took a human life. Needless to say, it wasn't my last."

"And it doesn't make you a sadistic monster, either, Illya. You were fighting for your life."

Kuryakin nodded slowly. "I know that." He shrugged off-handedly. "The rest of my story, I believe, you know. The Russian army found me, and I ended up in in the State schools via the State orphanages. GRU paid for my higher education; well, undergraduate and the Sorbonne, anyway. UNCLE picked up the tab for Cambridge. Then I came to New York and was partnered with an obstinate, bourgeois, wealth-flaunting American who, by any stretch of the imagination, should never have accepted such a partner with ideologies so far removed from his own." The eyes that looked at Napoleon now were full of gratitude.

"I guess I like a challenge. You aren't the easiest person to get along with."

"I could say the same thing, you know."

"You do, my friend, quite often."

"So, does this relieve me of my obligation to answer any and all questions?"

"That depends. How are you feeling about the events of the Gurnius Affair now?"

"Better than I did, thanks to you. But I must admit, what we do for the sake of world peace, seems like a job only a madman or a sadomasochist would do."

"Like Mr. Waverly said, it's a dirty business and sometimes we get very dirty. So, do you think you can look in a mirror and just see your own ugly mug?"

"Better than I could seeing yours."

"Then, I'm all for getting this cruise underway." Napoleon stood. "Would _Your Grace_ care to help with the sails?"

Illya sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "_Bozhye praviy_! (Good God) How do I ever put up with you?"

**End of Part 1**

_That should have been the end of it, but many deep psychological wounds heal slowly and can easily be reopened. A chance encounter with the associate of a vengeful THRUSH doctor in New England thrusts both Napoleon and Illya back into the psychological maelstrom of "The Gurnius Affair". _

_Part 2 of _**_We Are What We Live__: "_The Test of Wills Affair**_**" **  
><em>


	2. Chapter 2: The Test of Wills Affair

"**We Are What We Live"**

**Part 2: "The Test of Wills Affair"**

**Or**

"**Why Do Our Vacations Always Turn into Working Vacations?"**

**by WendieZ and LaH Carabele **

_ While still on vacation, Napoleon is kidnapped by Dr. Dabree's minions and taken to her latest test facility in an uninhabited area on Martha's Vineyard. She has been planning retribution against Solo ("The Brain Killer Affair") for a long time and finds the perfect set of circumstances in a reprisal of the events in "The Gurnius Affair"._

_Authors's comments: Once again, I am pleased to have Carabele's collaboration on this story._

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Napoleon Solo deftly maneuvered the _Pursang_ into the slip, while his partner, Illya Kuryakin, finished tying the mainsail to its boom, which would keep the fabric from flapping should a strong wind come up. When the boat was alongside the pier, the agile Russian leapt onto it, rope in hand, to secure the bow end of the sloop to its mooring. Solo cut the engine and tossed the aft rope to his friend.

"I'll make a sailor out you yet," Napoleon said with a grin.

"Interesting statement, considering that I _was_ in the Navy, while you were traipsing around Korea as an infantryman."

"But the only boat you managed to get yourself assigned to was a submarine."

"Don't remind me."

Napoleon hopped from the boat to the pier. "If your comrades could only see you now."

"They'd wonder the depths of depravity to which I've sunk."

"And secretly envy your good fortune."

"Referring to what? You, as a companion or the boat that brought us here? Because if it is you, I would be quick to point out that while I may have shared a bed with you in the past, it was out of necessity and not some unorthodox carnal need. Now, if you're referring to the boat—well, then, you might have something."

Solo looked up at his friend, who was grinning mischievously and gave him his famous frown of distaste. "Very funny."

Kuryakin chuckled softly at the victory of one-upping his partner. "Let's go get the rental car."

The pair walked the length of the pier to a car rental office located beside the marina office. Illya could not help but notice a shiny, bright red Thunderbird two-seater convertible in the lot as they entered the rental office. "I think I saw your car, Napoleon," he quipped. "Every bit the epitome of a bourgeois capitalist such as yourself."

"I saw it. She's a beauty, isn't she? I was hoping they'd be able to get one."

"You actually ordered that car?"

"Of course."

"You might just as well have hired a publicity agent to let everyone know you're coming. I'd prefer to ride into town anonymously, if you don't mind."

"Nobody's forcing you to ride with me to wherever you're going. You don't like the T-bird, rent your own set of wheels." Solo snapped his fingers. "That's right! Then, you'd have to put out some of that hard-earned cash of _yours_."

"I won't be needing a car the whole week. I'll just ride with you."

"You're as constant as the tides, my friend. If you promise to be pleasant for the trip to Cape Cod, I'll even let you drive." Solo paid for the rental and dangled the keys in front of his friend's face.

"Don't bother, I'll be meeting someone before we get to the Cape in the National Seashore area."

"Oh?" Napoleon's eyebrows raised. "I didn't know you knew anyone from around here."

"She's a marine biologist with the National Park Service and she happens to be studying the marine life in the National Seashore. I told her I'd enjoy helping her with her project if she arranged to do some diving. The area is full of sunken ships."

"Sounds exciting," Napoleon said as he covered a pretend yawn.

"I didn't say we'd be exploring underwater wreckages or counting shore birds the whole time, Napoleon," Illya retorted coyly.

"A little of that carnal need creeping up on you, _tovarisch_?"

"I never kiss and tell. You know that."

"Not vocally, anyway."

"Well, it's not hard to figure out what your beachside plans are going to entail."

"It's not going to be counting birds or looking for lost treasure, I can tell you that."

"You didn't have to tell me that. You, too, are as predictable as the tides. However, we probably should establish a time to meet up again."

"Why not see how the week goes? If you get tired of bird watching, you can call me on 'the pen'."

"Seriously, we should check in with each other every twelve hours or so."

"You aren't turning into a mother hen, now, are you?"

"I'm cautious. We have many enemies."

"You're right, of course. I'll take the first twelve hours." Napoleon started the T-Bird. "Listen to that engine purr," he said with a smile. He shifted into first gear. "Let's head up the coast and then you can introduce me to your lady marine biologist."

"Only if you promise not to try and charm her into taking my place in the car."

"Well, my friend, I can try. But there are no promises." Napoleon pressed his foot on the gas and the car responded as anticipated. He headed east for US route 6, which ran the length of the peninsula.

With the top down and the wind rushing by their ears, neither agent felt like shouting a conversation. Instead, Napoleon enjoyed the way the car handled on the road, and his passenger enjoyed the view.

After about an hour's drive, Illya pointed to a side road. "Turn here."

"If you ever wanted an out-of-the-way place to vacation," Napoleon observed, "I think you've found it."

"That's the idea," Kuryakin said with a slight grin.

"How often have you worked with her?" Napoleon said, suddenly a little jealous of his partner's find, even though he had not even met the lady yet.

"Several times over the years. I met her in Baltimore about four years ago when THRUSH was poisoning the local blue crab populations."

"You never mentioned her."

"How many women that you meet on assignment do you tell me about?"

"You always roll your eyes in annoyance when I start to."

"That's because with you, there's always another one to talk about. I'm not interested in your conquests."

"You're just jealous."

Illya snorted. "Hardly." A few miles further on the narrow road, they saw an old lighthouse perched one hundred feet from the edge of a cliff. Beside the stone tower was parked a colorful dune buggy.

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Going dune-hopping, are you?"

"We have to get to the beach somehow."

"You could always jump."

"Are you making an effort to be amusing, because if you are, you might want to quit while you're behind."

The dark-haired agent wrinkled his nose at this friend. "You're not staying in the lighthouse, are you?"

"No, Gretchen has a camper on the beach."

"Cozy."

"My thoughts exactly, but she usually pitches a tent in the sand, too, for observations."

"You and the lady've done this before?"

"Now, you sound jealous," Illya said, obviously pleased to one-up his partner—_again_.

"Well, I am," Solo said as he straightened up in the driver's seat. A slender brunette got out of the dune buggy and was walked towards the car, waving.

"Illya!" she called.

The blond agent grinned and exited the car without benefit of opening the door. "This is my stop. Thanks for the ride, Napoleon." He pulled his rucksack of clothing from the floor. "Remember, you have the first check-in. 'Bye." Without another word and with apparent excitement, Illya threw the duffle bag over his shoulder and trotted towards the delectable-looking young woman in short-shorts and snug tank top.

As Napoleon watched in amusement mixed with curiosity, his usually reserved partner dropped his burden and pulled Gretchen into an embrace, the pair twirling around and laughing. Rarely, had he seen Kuryakin in such a naked display of emotion—except, perhaps, two days earlier, when rage and hate filled the Russian's bearing as he spoke of the first of what had eventually become too many lives taken to enumerate. Once more, Solo realized that there was much he did not know about the man he called brother and confidant. As he pulled away, back onto the road, he saw the pair walking towards the lighthouse, their arms encircled about the other, and smiles on their faces.

* * *

><p><strong>Act I: "A Brunette and Two Redheads"<strong>

"I thought you'd never get here," Dr. Gretchen Moore sighed, her arm around the Russian's waist and her head on his shoulder.

"I was becoming impatient, too. Fortunately, I could count on Napoleon violating the speed limit."

"You should have asked your partner to stay a while."

"He has an agenda of his own and was anxious to be on his way," Illya lied smoothly.

"A shame. I would have liked to meet him."

"No, you wouldn't. He can be very wearisome, trust me." He gave her a light kiss on the cheek to emphasize his point.

"I'm never quite sure when you're being straight with me."

"Believe me, Gretchen. You're a find I'm not about to share with my partner any time soon." This time, he kissed her full on the lips, long and deep, to show her he was sincere. It was a kiss effectively designed to change the subject, so much so that Napoleon's name did not come up again until much later.

When they arrived on the beach via the dune buggy, Illya discovered that the ever-efficient Dr. Moore had lunch prepared and waiting. They sat opposite each other with a bucket of steamed clams and mussels between them complimented with buttered corn on the cob and bottled beer.

Kuryakin shook hot sauce on the taupe-colored flesh on the clamshell in his hand and downed it with glee. "How did you know I was hungry for steamed clams?"

The brunette smiled. "Just lucky, I guess. What did you want to do after lunch?"

"I told you I'd help with your observations."

"Most of my observations are at dawn and dusk."

"That leaves considerable free time this afternoon. Did you have something else in mind?" the blond-haired Russian said with an impish grin.

She echoed his expression. "We haven't seen each other for over a year."

"Has it been that long? I didn't realize."

"You always liked my back rubs."

"As I recall, the word I used to describe your back rubs was unbelievable. However, I think I would enjoy something a little simpler to start, if you don't mind."

"What could be simpler than a back rub?"

"You've added several inches to those lovely dark locks of yours. I would very much like to become lost in them as soon as possible."

"And you know I love to have someone brush my hair," she said nodding.

Illya smiled and ate another clam. It was going to be a very pleasant afternoon.

Napoleon arrived in Provincetown on the tip of the Cape and immediately realized this wasn't his kind of town. It was too rural in nature and lacked the type of vibrant and sophisticated nightlife he relished in Manhattan. This quaint community boasted a plethora of cafes with obvious hippie connections amidst the more stuffy historic tributes to Massachusetts' founding Pilgrim Fathers. He wandered about, feeling out-of-place and rather blue. His mood wasn't enhanced by his solitary state. He desperately wanted companionship of the feminine ilk, but barefooted gals scarcely past their high-school graduations (if they even were) sporting about in appliquéd jeans and flowered tees just weren't his style for such a companion.

He decided he would spend all day tomorrow investigating the beach bunny opportunities, hoping to catch some touristy females of a more inviting age sunning themselves upon the sands. Satisfied with that plan for his next day's activities, Napoleon ventured into one of the small local cafes with a nice outdoor setup where he didn't have to breathe in the inevitable pot smoke of the interior environs. Ordering some crab cakes and a coffee for lunch, he settled back to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine and the refreshing salt air. Thus he was actually lounging with his eyes half-closed behind his sunglasses when an alluring female voice from very nearby caught his attention.

"The budding toddlers do all seem to have come to frolic here rather than in their own neighborhood sandboxes, don't they?"

Napoleon cracked an eye open to glance at the commentator. The redhead sat at a table not more than an arm's length from his own. The tight linen Capri pants and fitted cropped shirt she wore left no doubt she had curves in all the right places. Her manner was languid, somewhat bored, and bespoke a certain chic indifference. This gal wasn't jailbait; she was pure man-bait.

Straightening in his chair, Napoleon bantered back with a ready smile, "I suppose they haven't yet discovered the beaches of the French Riviera."

"Don't even joke about that!" the lovely tutted smoothly, letting a devastating smile of her own feed the flirtation between them. "They will be the ruination of all the holiday havens of refinement."

"And of the morals of a civilized society, so they tell me," retorted Napoleon with yet another of his most charismatic smiles as he just as smoothly picked up on the peculiar tenor of their conversation for the obvious casual seduction it was.

The redhead laughed delightedly at his willingness to deftly participate in the inanity – and to so readily detect the underlying temperament – of the verbal repartee.

"Fleur Harpip," she introduced herself as she whipped off her sunglasses with one hand and extended the other to Napoleon.

"Ah, a flower child yourself then," he gently teased her about the name as he accepted her proffered hand.

Her eyes, the most intense shade of emerald green he had ever seen in his life, pinned themselves to his face.

"A flower in a stone, so never doubt my survival instincts, Mr…?

"Solo," answered Napoleon simply, "Napoleon Solo."

"A lone conqueror, therefore?"

Napoleon laughed. "Only sometimes," he granted with impassive agreeableness as he bent his head over that hand of hers he yet held and kissed it with continental flair.

"Perhaps a conqueror not adverse to company at present then?"

"A conqueror of any ilk could never be adverse to such stunning company as yours," he complimented her prettily as he discarded his own sunglasses.

There was something about her; something familiar. He couldn't place it, but the removal of his dark glasses was as much to get an unimpeded look at this temptress as for any other reason. The brilliant red hair that caught the rays of the sun so spectacularly seemed somehow wrong, as did the astonishingly green eyes.

"_You're being ridiculous, Solo,"_ he mentally chastised himself. _"She's positively gorgeous and there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of the perfect package."_

"Ah, perhaps then you would agree to a stroll on the beach? I hear the sunset views are stunning in their own way."

"Mother Nature will need to go a long way to eclipse the stunning view you present, my radiant flower in a stone, but I am certainly willing to observe her attempt."

* * *

><p>Brushing Gretchen's chocolate-brown tresses, Illya remembered fondly how, as a young child, he did the same for his <em>babka<em>, his maternal grandmother. It was one of the few pleasant memories he had from that time of his life, a fact that he had glossed over quickly when Napoleon had asked him details of his past.

Gretchen noticed how he applied the brush almost reverently to her hair. "This is a side of you I haven't seen much of," she remarked.

"You mean my hair-dressing skills?" he asked obliquely.

"What were you thinking about, Illya?"

"Why should I be thinking about anything in particular?"

"Did you used to brush your mother's hair when you were little?"

He paused in mid-stroke. "No, why do you ask?"

"Your grandmother's, then."

"Occasionally. Again, why do you ask?" He resumed caressing her hair with the brush.

"The way you are touching me; it's not sexual, at all."

"Why does brushing your hair have to be sexual?"

"It doesn't, it's just that I was expecting it to be and it isn't."

"Is this an expression of disappointment?"

She turned to look at him. "No." When she saw his closed expression, she reconsidered. "Yes."

The expression turned momentarily confused, then settled back to unreadable.

"You can be so aloof when you want to be."

"So I'm told. Do you wish me to be more sexual when brushing your hair?"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse or do you just don't get it?"

He sighed in resignation. "I _was_ reminiscing. My grandmother had hair longer and thicker than yours. I used to brush it and braid it for her."

"Why was that so difficult to tell me?"

Illya suddenly dropped the brush and stood up. "I believe a walk along the beach is in order," he said capriciously.

"Really? What might have brought that on?"

"It seems that whatever amorous mood we were both in earlier has been altered."

"I can't image how that could've happened." Gretchen stood up to face him. "Is that a walk for both of us?"

"If you like."

"As long as I don't ask you any personal questions."

"Gretchen, we've been down this path before. I give what I am able to give. Please, don't ask anymore of me than that. However, I would very much like you to walk with me."

She held out her hand. "Why do I put up with you?"

He took her hand in his. "That's a question only you can answer."

She followed him as he led her to the water's edge. She knew the answer—and it was probably the same answer had by every woman who had ever had contact with this man. But now, she wondered if it was still enough. She was hoping to soon find out.

The walk along the beach turned out to be more than a casual stroll. He seemed intent on recalling their earlier happier temperament as well as making amends for annoying her by becoming playfully teasing and enticing her with affectionate little games. Though she tried not to forgive him, his blue eyes seemed to plead her for forgiveness, a trick she was sure he had tried, quite successfully, before. She could not resist the mysterious seductiveness that was his charm.

They found their way back to the camper and tent where she encouraged him to lie down on the blanket for a back massage. She soon had him lying prone, moaning in obvious delectation at her manipulations.

"Your muscles are rock-hard. You under a lot of stress?"

"I'm always under a lot of stress," he mumbled with his face in the blanket. "But you've certainly managed to alleviate a good portion of it."

"You'll be putty in my hands when I'm through with you."

This time he lifted his head and turned to look over his shoulder. "I'm counting on it," he said with a coquettish grin.

"Are you now?" she said as she mirrored his smile. "Turn over."

"Why?"

"Because, I'm giving the orders right now. On your back, Kuryakin." He rolled over slowly and she straddled him once more. "Prepare to be putty in my hands, my delicious Russian delight."

Illya stared up at her quizzically for a moment until she slid her hands under his shirt, and began to massage his chest, paying very specific attention to the sensitive skin of his nipples. The delighted Russian half-coughed a gasp.

"Want more?" Gretchen whispered and leaned forward to grab his lower lip between her teeth. She held him there until he gave a faint nod. Then she engulfed his mouth in hers.

Illya had wanted to make their first sexual encounter in this meeting one of mutual gratification, but his lover had quickly taken control and refused to let him do little more than return her passionate kisses. He had a fleeting thought about the joys of putty malleability before the real massage began.

If his mind was not quite ready for her intent, his body was, and she smiled almost voraciously as she pulled down his fly and released his swollen penis from the confines of his underwear. And then—

_Oh, God,_ he cried out in his mind, almost as an annunciation of praise. Gretchen was skilled as a masseur; she was a consummate artist at what she was doing to him now. He could only lie before her and relish in the bombardment of intensely pleasurable sensations she was creating. He was almost relieved when she finally permitted him to reach a climax.

He relaxed, though his body continued to tremble from the hormones still surging though him. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh, totally sated and thoroughly exhausted, even though he had scarcely moved a muscle the whole time she was pleasuring him. A cascade of hair touched his nose and he opened his eyes to look into her smiling face.

"_Alors, Illya,_ _qu'est-ce que tu dis de ça?_(So, Illya, what do you have to say to that)?"

She was as fluent in French as he, so he answered softly in the same language, _"__Vous êtes ma joie et mon bonheur__. _(You are my joy and delight)"

A smug smile crept across her lips as she lay down beside him with her head on his shoulder. "C_'est bon," _she said,_ "très bon. Je peux vivre avec cela._(Good, very good. I can live with that)_"_

* * *

><p>A few hours after meeting, Napoleon and Fleur were enjoying a barefoot walk along a surprisingly deserted section of beach. The woman was as breathtaking at sunset as she had been in the full glare of day. Still, there was something about her that Napoleon was finding disconcerting. He couldn't place it; it was almost as if he had met her before and not in the most pleasant of circumstances. But no specific memory came into his mind; just a vague uneasiness to which he could assign no cause.<p>

Had this been a working situation, Napoleon likely would have given his gut instincts free rein and asked Section IV for a background check on the woman. But he was on vacation and he was tired of being wary of everyone and everything. He wanted desperately to relax, especially in the wake of that dreadful GURNIUS affair and more particularly Illya's subsequent confession regarding his feelings while torturing him. That had been difficult to hear and even more difficult to accept. So for the moment, Napoleon wanted to forget all of it, forget everything related to U.N.C.L.E., and just take simple pleasure in the company of a beautiful woman. And Fleur Harpip was certainly that.

They had been walking along that deserted stretch of beach for a while. Fleur subtly instigated her hand into his as they reveled in the tickling swirl of the incoming tide about their ankles and the soft squish of the damp sand between their toes. Each carried their shoes in hand and Napoleon had even rolled up the legs of his linen trousers to mid-calf. He had previously discarded his sidearm and holster along with the lightweight sports coat that had served to conceal those tools of his trade. The seaside breeze tousled his dark hair, dropping his forelock rakishly over one eye. There was a gentle hint of uncustomary stress-free abandon in his physical appearance and in his whole attitude. And for the moment it all seemed an incredibly liberating experience to the usually on-guard and on-point agent.

A sound caught Napoleon's ears from amidst the steady roar of the waves. He perked up and listened intently.

"What is it?" Fleur inquired perhaps a bit suspiciously, but Napoleon was too focused on listening for the sound again to note his companion's non-circumspect behavior.

"Out in the surf. Hear it? Someone is out there, calling for help."

Within a heartbeat Napoleon dropped his shoes to the sand and began a run into the rolling waves. Truth be told, he hated making any ingress into large bodies of water. Oh, he was a competent swimmer as U.N.C.L.E. simply wouldn't have it any other way for any of their agents. He was a fair scuba-diver as well. And sailing was indeed a personal passion, but sailing was done atop the waves, not beneath them. Thus letting water of any kind become the immersive force in his personal physical environment was something he merely tolerated and steadfastly avoided whenever possible. Yet at the moment there was no choice. Someone was drowning and there was no lifeguard here to provide assistance.

With strong swimming strokes and total suppression of his own anxiety about the insistent tug of the waves, Napoleon reached the hapless victim in short shrift.

"My leg is caught," gasped out a girl, little more than a teenager by Napoleon's quick estimation, as she attempted with less than complete success to keep her head above the wild breakers. "Kelp or something."

Napoleon dove under the water, found her trapped leg by feel and then grabbed at the stuff encircling that leg and yanked hard. Enough of the seaweed about her calf and ankle pulled loose from the sands below for the girl to kick her way free of the remainder. Resurfacing, Napoleon quickly assessed the choking and coughing still wracking the girl's frame. Deciding she certainly was not yet fit to make the swim back to shore unaided, he wrapped an arm around her body under her armpits and pushed determinedly through the ocean swells to bring them both safely to shore. Once there, they splayed flat on their backs side-by-side in the sand, panting to regain full breath.

The girl sat up first, uttering a still somewhat breathless "Thanks." Then she turned to look at her rescuer lying there on the sand. The moon had risen and was providing a surely romantic haze of silvery light. And as well Napoleon's soaked cotton shirt and most particularly his sopping light-colored linen slacks were more than surely clinging to him a bit too close for conventional modesty.

"My, my, my, quite a feast for the eye!" enthusiastically remarked the girl without any pretense of embarrassment as her pale gray-green eyes appreciatively raked him up and down.

"Oh for the love of…" muttered Napoleon in frustration as he pushed himself up into a seated position. "Here I am: as water-logged as a drowned cat after risking my neck to save yours, and you consider my unfortunate state of attire an appropriate segue for a less than subtle pass? Don't you self-named flower children employ any pretext at all for commonplace good manners?"

Truth was he wasn't used to being on the receiving end of such a frank physical evaluation. He definitely preferred being the initiator in such matters. And he positively would not himself be engaging in that pastime with this gal who, in her purple-and-white candy-cane-striped two-piece swimsuit, impressed him as more likely to engage in a pastime of smooching boys behind high-school gym lockers.

"Free love accepts no boundaries of either time or place with regard to indulgence in the simplest of pleasures," declared the girl with a negligent shrug. "Looking, liking and saying so doesn't translate as depraved behavior, you know. Besides, you certainly have no call to get all uptight and overhyped with the presentation of the package," she furthered as her eyes ran another comprehensive inventory of his assets.

"If you make any insulting comment referencing drenched beefcake or the like, I'm throwing you right back into the ocean."

"What about slam-on gritrock?" taunted the girl with a mischievous smirk.

"What?" questioned Napoleon with a perplexed blink.

"Never mind, good-looking: You don't have to understand the lingo to be the genuine article. Ginny Naline straight from the breath-stealing waves to your lifesaving arms," she then introduced herself.

"Short for Ginger no doubt," quipped Napoleon with a still grumpy edge to his tone as he eyed the carrot-hued locks now glued by moisture and salt to her head and about her shoulders.

"Duh-dumb no. For Virginia," corrected Ginny. "My folks had no clue I would come out wearing this tangerine crown when they grabbed a handle for me whilst I wallowed in a prenatal state. I was just labeled the same as my granny is all."

"Fortunate coincidence then," noted Napoleon. His crankiness was wearing off as the realization the ocean was no longer something he had to battle for survival sank fully into his consciousness. And he had to admit the girl's jaunty manner and blunt (if only partly comprehensible) speech was both uncomplicatedly amusing and flatteringly – if unnervingly – complimentary.

"Napoleon? Are you all right?" called Fleur as she made her way toward the two beached survivors.

"Ah, I see you are indeed fond of redheads," stated Ginny as she watched the pomegranate-tressed Fleur move closer to them.

"Only if they are past legal drinking age," retorted Napoleon.

"Then I qualify," Ginny made her case, "by some three years."

"In your dreams, Carrot-top," he teased, bestowing one of his full megawatt smiles as he playfully tousled her dripping orangey mane before rising to his feet to greet the oncoming Fleur.

"Oh Napoleon," gushed Fleur as she flew into his arms, "I was terrified you wouldn't make it out of those waves! Are you really okay?" she demanded as she pulled back a little so to give him a quick visual once-over.

"I'm fine," said Napoleon simply.

"I'm fine too, thank you," remarked Ginny as she rose to her feet and began brushing damp sand from her bare legs.

Fleur stared at her like she was a bug under a microscope. "How fortunate for you," she commented in a wholly indifferent tone.

"Your name really Napoleon?" Ginny pointedly ignored Fleur as she turned her attention back to her rescuer. "Just so I know to whom to send the prerequisite 'with sincere gratitude for saving my life' fruit basket commonplace good manners likely demands."

"Napoleon Solo," he acknowledged with a nod. "And you can thank me by keeping to less deserted stretches of beach for your evening swims from now on."

"But how else would I get to meet handsome strangers except by taking on the part of a damsel in distress?" bantered back Ginny with an exaggerated flutter of her golden eyelashes. "And he does have the look, don't you agree?" Ginny now inquired of Fleur with a little elbow nudge.

"The look?" repeated the mystified Fleur as she moved out of ready range of Ginny's jabbing elbow.

"That of the irresistibly dark and intriguingly mysterious heart-stealer with a penchant for moonlight heroics," clarified Ginny.

Napoleon laughed lightly. "I prefer to engage in much different, if equally daring, activities by moonlight," he intimated suggestively and quite clearly to Fleur.

Ginny sighed as she watched Fleur bodily cozy up to Napoleon in response to the evocative comment. Damn! She wasn't going to get a real chance with this delectable knight-errant. How disheartening!

"Better take him somewhere completely private for those activities then," Ginny brusquely advised Fleur. "Scrumptiously saltwater saturated like that, he'll get more personal invites than he can handle in any public venue."

Fleur gawked, but Napoleon only laughed again at Ginny's unedited forwardness. She certainly was not one of those awkward blushing virgins.

"I assure you I can adequately acquit myself in any situation, Carrot-top," he countered with a sly wink.

Ginny grinned widely and approvingly at Napoleon. Fleur, however, was soon fussing about how he really should get into some dry clothes before he caught his death and purposely drawing Napoleon by the arm away from the other woman.

"That hardened bit of butter brickle will wind up giving you a bad case of indigestion, my hunk of gallant and gorgeous," Ginny muttered quietly as she watched with just a hint of speculation in her gray-green eyes as her erstwhile champion and his female arm-candy moved off down the beach.

* * *

><p>The encounter on the beach had been too close. Not only had she come very near to literally losing her prey to drowning in the ocean's currents, but also of figuratively losing him to the coquette games of a sodden hippie sex-kitten. Coming across the U.N.C.L.E. agent in Provincetown had been a stroke of luck Fleur, aka Nurse Flostone, still found hard to believe had been bestowed upon her by whatever fates tampered in the lives of humans. But she certainly was not going to let luck be the determining factor in subsequent dealings with Mr. Solo. She took a deep calming breath to settle her nerves as she and her male companion made their way into the underground nightclub she had insisted they try for a "walk on the wild side". Napoleon hadn't really been keen on the idea, but she had inevitably won him over with some well-placed feminine wheedling. From here she could put into motion a seemingly innocent set of circumstances, circumstances that would end with Napoleon Solo secreted in the private Martha's Vineyard "retreat" of Dr. Agnes Dabree.<p>

Napoleon sighed discontentedly as he gazed about him at the clientele in the antiestablishment haven. Even his casual polo and chinos seemed much too dressy a style for this crew. Bell-bottomed jeans, many of them adorned with often rudely-worded needlepoint patches and boasting baggy spots around the knees, were the norm. And many of the male patrons didn't even bother with shirts, just draped their bare chests in layers of what were known as "love beads". Himself, he couldn't elevate this place with the description of nightclub; it was more just a bar and not at all a swanky one. He was amazed at Fleur wanting to party in such a tawdry atmosphere, but then likely she was just craving some novel experience. Well, he would provide her that later, he promised himself with an unquestionably smug grin. For now he would indulge her reckless folly with amiable broadmindedness.

They weren't seated (squished in like a pair of sardines more like) for more than two minutes at a tiny table too much in the open for Napoleon's comfort when a pair of arms wrapped themselves about his neck from behind.

"My hero!" exclaimed Ginny exuberantly.

"Don't do that!" Napoleon warned her, knowing that – had he been wearing his gun in his usual shoulder holster instead of one strapped to his calf – she might have wound up shot through the head. As it was he had needed to strongly suppress his defensively honed instinct to throw his surprise assailant bodily across the room.

"What are you doing in my personal stomping grounds?" Ginny inquired with real interest, totally ignoring the edge that had invaded Napoleon's voice with his verbal admonition. She pulled up an empty chair from another table and crowded in close as she sat without invitation.

"Your personal stomping grounds?" questioned Napoleon.

"I'm the bartender here, Sir Brave and Besotting."

"The bartender?" repeated Napoleon incredulously.

"Told you I was past the legal drinking age," Ginny teased with a ready wink.

"Well, since you are the bartender," interjected Fleur quite scathingly, "perhaps you will take the initiative to serve us up two martinis?"

"Here?" Ginny sniggered. "I'll get you both draft beers. That's better quality than most of the rotgut served in this joint."

"Pretty crowded for a place that serves rotgut," put in Napoleon.

"The liquor is dirt cheap and besides most of this crowd is more interested in the stuff being served up in the head shop in the back."

"Grand," remarked Napoleon drily. Just what he needed: to be spending an evening in a counterculture saloon with illicit drug connections.

"Oh come on, Napoleon," prompted Fleur with an enticing smile. "Where is your sense of adventure?"

"I had hoped to leave it at home this vacation," he responded glumly.

"Oh darling, we'll observe the unwashed masses while commenting wittily behind our hands," proposed Fleur, "and then seek a more intimate setting for our own version of a love-in."

Fleur's intense green eyes promised a myriad of future delights. Still, there was something disquieting about all of this: the location, the set-up, and most particularly about the woman herself. Napoleon, however, pushed his uneasiness back down into his subconscious, mentally chastising it to keep out of the way of his current reprieve from the responsibilities involved in "saving the world".

He smiled engagingly at the curvaceous redhead. "Such tempting rewards make the current discomfort worth the stress," he assured her as he lifted one of her hands to his lips.

Ginny leaned her chin on her open palm as she observed Napoleon kiss the hand of the other redhead at the table.

"You've got the whole continental savoir-faire thing down pat," she complimented him.

"Years of practice," he bantered back with a ready wink of his own.

"You said something about bringing us beers?" Fleur pressed less than subtly. This little tartlet she found annoying in the extreme, and of course the girl was just another obstacle she needed to overcome in order to successfully pursue her own plans for the evening.

"Course," acknowledged Ginny as she rose from her purloined seat. "And don't worry, prima-donna: I'm a professional. Thus I would never even dream of spitting in your beer."

With that Ginny made her way back to the bar, pointedly wiggling her pert little behind as she did so. Napoleon couldn't help but smile at the gal's undaunted ebullience even when facing competition well out of her league, as was the worldly Fleur. And, truth be told, she was rather pretty. Tending more toward cute actually, with a nicely shaped – though not voluptuous – figure to match. Her carrot-colored hair fell in wispy curls about her shoulders and those gray-green eyes were arresting in their own way. She was not his type of course, but still he couldn't deny she did provide a pleasant vista. In fact, physically Ginny seemed almost like a much more natural and very youth-washed version of Fleur. Except for that pert little behind: that was utterly her own asset and worthy of special admiration as such.

With Ginny safely out of the way, Fleur decided it was time to take advantage of the moment. "I have to powder my nose, Napoleon," she excused herself with a small smile. "Don't find any other hippie baby-dolls to warm my chair in the meanwhile."

Napoleon smiled wickedly. "I'll make no promises, so you'd best hurry back," he teased.

Once Fleur was up and gone in search of the ladies' room, Napoleon decided to take advantage of the moment himself to check in with Illya. He walked toward an inconspicuous corner of the room behind a potted plant, which seemed to be a very healthy sprout of marijuana, and opened his communicator. "Open Channel A."*

Illya was alone when he awoke; the sun had set and the only light came from the windows of the camper. An appetite-stimulating aroma also emanated from the camper that enticed him to investigate.

"Well, sleepy-head," Gretchen teased from in front of a small propane burner. The skillet she was stirring was the source of the mouth-watering bouquet. "I thought I might have to come out and kick some sand in your face to wake you."

"Bird-watching is a very draining activity," Illya replied with a slight smile. "What are you making?"

"Goulash," she answered with a shrug. "I'm not much of a cook."

"I haven't found your culinary skills lacking."

"That's because you'd eat sand if I put a sauce on it and served it up on a plate."

Illya chuckled at the joke at his expense and poured two glasses from the bottle of red wine on the counter. He handed a glass to her and laid his cheek against hers. "I should very much like to reciprocate for what you did for me this afternoon," he murmured.

She smiled up at him. "And I would very much like to be on the receiving end of your reciprocation. As I recall, you're very good with your hands." She grinned broadly and laughed.

He echoed her smile, commenting to himself how much he liked hearing her laugh. It would be easy to rationalize staying longer than just the few days they had together. He was about to nuzzle her neck with his lips when a familiar two-toned warble shattered the mood he was trying to establish.

They both straightened as if they were two children caught with their hands in a cookie jar. Illya sighed apologetically. "I'd better answer that." He stole out of the camper door as he pulled the communicator pen from his pants pocket. "Channel A is open. Kuryakin here."

*Napoleon's voice answered: "Hare to tortoise: Creep across any new intriguing marine life?"

"You're twenty minutes late. _Hare_," Illya censured through the slim silver pen.

Napoleon grinned. How like his partner to comment on that. "Sorry, but I've been a bit busy acting as lifeguard to the indigenous flower-child population."

"Should I ask you to explain that further?"

"It's a long story."

"Then I'll pass on hearing the explanation until the long, boring drive back to the boat. I take it all is well?"

"Well enough that I have not one but two redheads vying for my attentions."

"Spare me the details. Where are said redheads at the moment?"

"One is bringing me a beer and the other is powdering her nose."

"How cozy."

"Uh-huh, as long as they don't decide to scratch each other's eyes out."

"Napoleon, how do you get yourself into these situations?"

Napoleon laughed lightly. "Just lucky I guess. Listen Illya, I better sign off before someone spies me talking to my pen behind a _Cannabis_ plant. Though," he considered as his eyes circled the cavalcade of characters in the room, "I doubt that would really raise any eyebrows in here. Next check-in in approximately twelve hours to initiate from your end, _tovarisch_. Solo out." Napoleon snapped shut his communicator and returned to his table just as Ginny came over with a tray holding two mugs of draft.

Back at the camper on the beach below the old lighthouse, Illya closed his own pen with a partly-amused and partly-disapproving shake of his head and replaced the device in his pocket. As he went back inside to see if dinner was ready, he mused how, later that evening, he was going to show Gretchen how he could be just as skilled pleasuring a lover as she had been for him.

Ginny placed one mug down on the table in front of Napoleon and plopped down the other before Fleur's empty chair.

"Will your girlfriend be back before the head goes flat on this?" she inquired coolly of Napoleon. "Or is her chief concern with other head life?"

"You want to talk in English, Carrot-top?" asked Napoleon with a bemused smirk.

"Your lady-friend: she going to drink or smoke?"

"My lady-friend is currently in the restroom, but I presume she will be drinking upon her return."

"That the line she handed you, hunny-bunny?"

"Line she handed me?" questioned an obviously perplexed Napoleon.

"Listen my dark prince, I don't know what Lady Macbeth recited to you about her intentions, but I saw her wander off in the direction of the head lounge, if you catch my drift, not the head."

"Damn!" muttered Napoleon mostly under his breath. He rose quickly to his feet and demanded of Ginny, "Show me the way."

"Don't get manic," advocated Ginny with a surprise blink at Napoleon's sudden about-face into deadly (and rather gripping) seriousness. "Plenty of those society divas take a one-time hit of the weed as a thrill-ride. It's not cause for a fit of pique."

"Just show me the way, Ginny," he urged her in a tone that left no room for discussion.

Accordingly Ginny led him past the bar patrons toward a small back room fittingly separated by a beaded curtain from the main narrow hallway housing the restrooms. A few feet from that entrance Napoleon placed a restraining hand on her arm.

"You stay here," he required of her.

"Oh for pity's sake," complained Ginny at this directive. "I'm not exactly lily, you know."

Napoleon quirked an eyebrow at her in query.

"Stark white against an otherwise dark setting," explained Ginny.

"Be that as it may, humor me and stay here," he bid her.

She shrugged but remained where she was as Napoleon moved forward to and then through the suspended strings of clattering glass beads.

Within a small room that literally reeked of the smell of hashish, Fleur stood before a small table consulting with a bearded and shirtless man about a slender pipe she held in her hand.

She turned to Napoleon with an innocent-seeming smile. "Look, Napoleon!" she raised the pipe to his line of sight. "A real Japanese kiseru! Such intricate workmanship!" she admired the object further as Napoleon moved closer.

"This is not exactly the place to do your import shopping, Fleur," he chastised her.

"Hey man, my merchandise is top flight!" protested the guy Napoleon assumed was the shop dealer.

"Uh-huh, and provides top flights as well," deadpanned Napoleon.

It couldn't have been for more than an instant that Napoleon's eyes were turned toward the hippie shopkeeper. Yet in that moment the fine workmanship of the kiseru pipe in Fleur's hand ejected a fine needle that injected a powerful knock-out drug into Napoleon's bare right bicep. He reeled around, realizing he had been tricked and caught in a neat trap, and in that following instant Napoleon knew the woman with the masked hypodermic for who she truly was.

"I should have recognized the prominent cheekbones," he spoke half in a daze as he tried to fight the drug coursing through his veins, "my blonde death head."

"I'm flattered you think my bone structure memorable, Mr. Solo," commented Fleur with a self-satisfied smile just before Napoleon hit the floor and passed into total oblivion.

At the sound of a body making hard contact with the floor, Ginny was in the room like a shot. "What happened to him?" she demanded.

"Allergic reaction to the hashish I should imagine," suggested Fleur as she pretended solicitous concern for her unconscious date, kneeling beside him and undoing a few buttons of his polo and gently slapping at his cheeks. Stealthily she brushed a hand along his calf, felt his holster and positioned herself over that side of him just long enough to remove his semi-automatic from its holder and slip it into her purse.

"He needs a doctor!" insisted Ginny as she too knelt down beside Solo, her hand brushing the lock of dark hair off his forehead.

"I can't have ambu-meds banging through here!" the dealer exclaimed in panic. "They'll be shadowed by the fuzz!"

"I'm a nurse," put in Fleur competently. "Here," she said, opening her purse and pulling a business card from its depths that she then thrust into Ginny's hand, thus forcing that hand of the younger woman away from further contact with Solo. "Call that number," she ordered. "Tell the receptionist Fleur has a private patient and to send the quiet car."

"Quiet car?" asked Ginny suspiciously.

"A private ambulance that runs without lights or sirens used to transport dignitaries and celebrities and the like. I work for an exclusive private clinic and we handle a lot of those kinds of patients."

"This isn't a time for making with the twenty questions, Gin-gal. Just do as she asks," pleaded the terrified shopkeeper.

Ginny stayed still and uncertain for a moment or so more, but a moan from Napoleon had her up and off to the bar to phone for the private ambulance Fleur was so eager to provide.

After the other woman's exit, Fleur stood, opened her purse once more and retrieved a large wad of bills that she subsequently pressed into the hand of the dealer. "For services rendered," she thanked him blandly.

"No sweat, lady," spoke up the bearded man. "I ken the frenzied vibes radiating off a bossy john can make for a really bad scene. Hope you split to a faraway place before he regains his head."

"Oh, that won't be an issue," Fleur assured him with a smile, of course, neglecting to mention the supposed 'bossy john' would be coming right along with her to that faraway place.

* * *

><p><strong>Act II:<strong> **"A good travel agent helps eliminate those annoying vacation glitches."**

"Oh, my God, Illya! Where did you learn to do that?" Gretchen gasped between deep breaths as her heart began to slow down from its orgasmic high. She lay on the blanket in the tent, the breeze from the ocean raising gooseflesh on her sweat-glistening body.

A softly Russian/British-accented voice answered. "I have pleased you?"

She sat up and cupped her hands around the face belonging to the voice. "Pleased me—? My God, you've ruined me! No one has ever—or _will_ ever come close!"

"I guess we've both learned some new things since the last time we spent some time together."

"You have a gift for understatement. What's the Russian word for 'thank you'?"

"S_pasibo_."

Gretchen leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching. "S_pasibo,_ Illya. You are a wonderful lover."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that."

"Well," she whispered, leaning closer. "You could thank me for the compliment and then hold me and kiss me like there won't be a tomorrow."

"Than—" was the only sound he was able to make before Gretchen lay on him fully, her mouth over his. He drew his arms around her and rolled their bodies until they lay side by side, locked in a seemingly endless kiss into eternity.

Illya awoke at dawn, his arms still around the beautiful woman he had fallen asleep kissing. As he lay listening to Gretchen's soft breathing, he pondered again how much he and Napoleon differed in their philosophy regarding women. Much of the time, he was celibate, inviting little contact with the opposite sex. Napoleon, on the other hand, would willingly take more than one woman to bed in a night, if he could manage to keep them unawares of the others. Could it be that, for Solo, every sexual encounter was on the level of intensity that he experienced with Gretchen? It could explain his partner's insatiable appetite. As if prompted, he could suddenly feel his own mind and body yearn for a glorious encore of the previous day.

Almost immediately, he chided himself for the very same things about which he was forever upbraiding his partner. _We are men, not rutting bull elk_, he told himself, but in the next moment, another voice countered: _This is time to regenerate, to enjoy the life we fight so hard to give others. _

His mind made up, he carefully drew his arms out from under his sleeping partner, and slipped out of the tent. Just inside the door to the camper, Gretchen had a stack of towels, and he took one, wrapping it around his hips. He was going to do something he had never done: he was going to go for a swim in the ocean at dawn, and he was going to be naked when he did it.

A devilish grin formed on his lips as he trotted to the water's edge. _If Napoleon could see me now, he'd think I'd gone completely daft,_ he thought, and threw the towel on the sand. The water was chilly, but he was not deterred. He ran out into the surf until the swells were above his knees and with a laugh, dove into the gray-green water.

The cold water took his breath away, but at the same time was invigorating—or was it the total spontaneity of his action that was making him feel giddy? He could not recall the last time he had ever experienced anything to make him feel what he felt at this moment. No—Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin: UNCLE agent, former GRU agent, Doctor of Philosophy in Quantum Physics, Soviet Naval Captain, Ukrainian/Gypsy orphan had _never_ felt this way before. _Truly and undeniably jubilant. _

After fifteen minutes, the chill of the water was becoming uncomfortable, so Illya reluctantly returned to the beach and his towel lying on the sand. He was half-way to the tent when saw Gretchen, dressed in his shirt, standing by the front of the camper, watching him. The giddy feeling returned, starting in his groin and spread quickly throughout the rest of his body. With a loud whoop, he threw off the towel, ran up to the astonished woman and caught her in an embrace that ended with them both on the blanket inside the tent once again. He drew her open lips towards his own, and as the sun rose over the National Seashore, Illya Kuryakin made passionate love to Gretchen Moore.

* * *

><p>Napoleon drifted slowly back into consciousness, attentive that at least the air yet held the characteristic tang of salt spray. Still somewhere along the Atlantic seaboard then.<p>

"Might as well open your eyes, Mr. Solo," the distinctive cadence of the speech of Dr. Agnes Dabree broke through the fog in his mind. "I am quite aware you're no longer under the main effect of my little knock-out potion."

"For something little it sure packs a big wallop," complained Napoleon as he slowly raised his eyelids. His head was pounding and he felt somewhat nauseous.

"I taught Flo better than to use minimal measures on U.N.C.L.E. agents," explained Dabree, "especially one of your caliber."

"I'm flattered, but you really didn't have to go through all this trouble to deliver me safe and sound," quipped Napoleon as the fact he was securely strapped down on a hospital gurney filtered into his range of sensory perception. "I did advise my travel agent I wanted to keep transportation methods simple this trip."

"Quite the witty conversationalist, aren't you? Well, I do have many topics I'd like to discuss with you. But first suppose we get out of the way the annoying possibility of a daring rescue by your partner. Where is he, Mr. Solo? I'd like to offer him my hospitality as well."

"Sorry, I prefer to be selfish and keep this charming hideaway all to myself."

"That won't do, Mr. Solo. You see, my generosity knows no bounds and I do so enjoy showering it on as many as needful."

"Get yourself a publicist and leave me out of the mix for inviting new victims… uh, guests into your lair."

"Obstinate young man," she fussed. "That attitude won't avail you anything, you know. A healthy dose of my singular form of penthathol forced into your veins will soon relieve you of it in any case."

"More special treatment?" jibed Napoleon. "How lucky can one guy be?"

"Enough badinage. I doubt you'll be quite so devil-may-care once my formula travels throughout your nervous system. I brew it particularly to treat stubborn U.N.C.L.E. agents. Aside from its main objective as a truth serum, it has some less than pleasant side-effects. Your whole body will feel like it's on fire, Mr. Solo. As if acid had replaced all your blood."

"You Thrush scientists do so like to brag about your supposed innovations," complained Napoleon, refusing to be cowed by her threats. "For a change of pace, why don't you just get on with your dirty work in non-boastful silence?"

"If that is your wish: I do aim to please." Dabree then turned toward the other occupant in the room. "Flo, prepare the injection."

Nurse Flostone, long hypodermic needle held within her long-nailed fingers, came into Napoleon's line of sight. The red dye had been washed out of her pale blond locks and the green contacts had been removed from her dark brown eyes.

"The flower in the stone that turned out to be a snake under a rock," Napoleon greeted her with a bitter smile.

Flo smiled back nastily. "I was rather surprised you made it all so easy."

"I was attempting a respite from all things work-related," he admitted. "Silly of me to think that a state Thrush might actually allow me to achieve for a few days at least."

"Yes, very silly of you," agreed Flo. "Though it's quite unfortunate that you won't get a chance to benefit from that life lesson, for I'm afraid you simply won't have any future opportunities at living."

"Expectations of my impending demise have always turned out disappointing."

"Not this time, Mr. Solo," pronounced Dr. Dabree with steadfast certainty. "You're on vacation. Once I take your partner out of the equation, no one will miss you for days. By that time you'll be nothing more than a memory. Now just relax," she counseled as she took the needle from Flo's hand and ejected a small amount of fluid from the tip to check its readiness, "and think satisfying thoughts of how nobly you'll be eulogized at your funeral."

The hypodermic descended deep into Napoleon's flesh just below his left elbow and then the physical agony of the serum and the mental agony of the endless questions began.

"He is really quite obnoxiously mulish," grumbled Dr. Dabree with regard to her 'patient'.

She had been hammering away at Napoleon for well over two hours and had thus far gotten little more out of him than reams of totally nonsensical information. Certainly he had provided her nothing of any use in her current determination to locate his partner for likewise deliverance into her clutches. She had already given the U.N.C.L.E. CEA two additional injections of the pain-inducing truth serum and all to no particular avail.

"He seems to have quite a high tolerance level," noted Nurse Flostone clinically.

"Yes," agreed the disgruntled Dabree. "Come on, Mr. Solo: no need for you to suffer alone," she pressed Napoleon.

"Contrary to popular opinion, misery does not love company," panted out Napoleon.

He was finding it harder and harder to resist the truth serum. His concentration centered solely on the sizzling stinging and flaring throbbing echoing throughout his veins, and he was beginning to lose mental connection with what he was saying. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. If he wasn't such an optimistic person by nature, he would have prayed for death. But it just wasn't in him to do that. No matter how desperate the situation, there was always hope, wasn't there? Always.

"Give him another injection, Flo," Dabree ordered.

"Pushing toward overkill, aren't you?" Napoleon barely managed to get the words out. His throat was hoarse from screams he didn't even want to remember making.

"Rest assured I will only kill you in my own time and in my own manner, Mr. Solo," Dabree pledged. "Thus, for the present at least, your life is safe enough. Now I will ask you again: Where is Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Not here, at least," Napoleon struggled to keep some focus.

"The injection, Flo!" demanded the frustrated Dabree.

Nurse Flostone stuck the filled needle into Napoleon's forearm and pushed the plunger in one swift stroke. Napoleon's tormented shriek, as the acid-like fluid sped additional flash-heat into his veins, surely could have roused the dead.

"You're second-rate even as a torturer, Dabree," he nevertheless hissed out through resolutely clenched teeth. "My partner did a better job."

Dr. Dabree's ears pricked up. "A better job at torturing you? Now that's an odd teambuilding technique for U.N.C.L.E. to employ."

Napoleon bit his bottom lip so hard, it split and bled. He desperately wanted to keep silent but the odds were stacking against him far too rapidly now.

"Sometimes things are necessary," Napoleon found the scratchy words dropping unintended from his mouth.

"Why so they are, Mr. Solo. And right now it is vitally necessary for you to tell me where to find Mr. Kuryakin."

A plan was forming in the mind of Dr. Dabree. One U.N.C.L.E. agent torturing another… to death. It had so many nuances of shivery satisfaction to savor that she could barely contain her excitement.

"Way too sure of yourself, like every Thrush I've ever met," Napoleon commented with a brief if awkward smile. "But national parks are big places. You'll never find him amid the marine life."

Napoleon wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore. His own words seemed far-off and garbled in his pain-sealed state of vague semi-awareness.

"Won't I?"

"No, you won't, you sadistic loony!" the verbal attack erupted from Solo with all but the last of his strength. He was losing this battle and he knew it. Even drugged out of his mind and half-insane with physical hurt, he knew it. "He and his Gretchen are safe within the shadow of that lighthouse," he found himself verbalizing a sentiment he had only intended to reflect upon in his head.

"Lighthouses are built so sturdily, I do agree."

Suddenly terrified of what he had revealed in the mental haze and physical agony inflicted by the multiple doses of the re-engineered penthathol, Napoleon began to thrash about wildly in a fruitless attempt to break free of the restraints that mercilessly bound him tight to the gurney.

Dr. Dabree only tut-tutted at the violence of his movements as she tested the undeterred strength of his bonds.

"Do give him a sedative, Flo," she urged her cohort. "I think we can be charitable for the moment and let Mr. Solo sleep awhile. After all, he has generously provided us with quite enough information to successfully sniff out our next quarry."

"I'm sorry Illya." Napoleon's anguished but barely audible croak was the last coherent sound he made before the narcotic Flo introduced into his embattled system lulled his ravaged senses into the black void of sheer exhaustion.

* * *

><p>It took a great deal of willpower to leave the camper while Gretchen was cooking up breakfast sausages and eggs, but it was time for his twelve hour check-in with Napoleon and Illya was half-curious how his partner had fared with the two competing redheads.<p>

He walked a discrete distance from the camper and tent and opened his communicator. "Open Channel A. Napoleon, are you still in one piece?"

The only thing he heard was the soft hiss of his communicator searching for its compatriot device. He looked at the silver pen somewhat critically, as if his expression could be transmitted to his partner's end, and looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen: Napoleon should be expecting him to call.

With a mental shrug, Illya closed his communicator, and headed back to the camper. He was not worried, for Napoleon had missed check-ins before when on vacation and it usually meant he was in the middle of a very intense "conversation" with a lady friend. Solo would call back when he realized he had missed the check-in and Illya would get the chance to hear, yet, another fabricated excuse.

The Russian agent smiled to himself. He would make it a point to ridicule his partner again for his tardiness. He walked up the two steps to the camper door and was met by a plate piled high with eggs, sausages and light, fluffy pancakes. The smile widened to a grin as the cook announced that "breakfast was served."

Later that morning, Gretchen drove the dune buggy south along the coastline with Illya in the passenger's seat. "I've chartered a small cabin cruiser in Hyannis Port for us to take out to a very interesting sunken vessel: the _Aransas._"

"Really? I did some reading on a few of the boats in that area. A passenger and freight steamer carrying a cargo of brass, as I recall. Went down after hitting several barges in 1905."

"Show off," Gretchen said and her companion grinned.

"We can explore the wreck in two dives. On the second one, I fully intend on catching a couple of lobsters for supper. The currents can be rather strong there so it's recommended that you plan any dives in that area during what they call 'slack time'.

"When the tide changes direction," Illya said.

"How do you know so much about tides and currents?"

"Soviet Navy; and my partner has a forty foot sloop we take out once in a while. A sailboat is much more efficient if you're running with the tides instead of against them."

"You never cease to amaze me, Illya."

"How so?"

"You're very knowledgeable about a lot of things."

"A product of the line of work I'm in. If I'm supposed to impersonate a coal miner, I should have a working knowledge or better of the subject."

"What's the most dangerous assignment you've had?"

"You've asked me that before and I told you that they all have the potential to be dangerous," the Russian answered evenly, wishing she would quickly find a different topic of conversation.

"Then, what was the hardest thing you ever had to do on an assignment?" She noticed a slight change in his body language, and regretted the question. "I'm sorry, that wasn't fair."

"Then, you will not be offended if I don't answer. Perhaps a change in topic is warranted."

"All right, let's talk about your partner. What's Napoleon like?"

"He's an American," Illya relied as if that was explanation enough.

Gretchen looked at him curiously. "And that's all?"

"Why do you want to know about Napoleon? It's not like we're going to be spending a lot of time with him, if I have anything to say about it."

She smiled coyly. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"No, because there isn't any, but that doesn't mean I would consider sharing you with him."

"Now you make me sound like a commodity."

"Perhaps another change in topic is appropriate here."

"You haven't told him about me, have you?"

"He knows very little and I don't intend to expound on that anytime soon. Change the subject, please."

"In a minute. Why haven't you told your partner anything about me?"

Illya sighed heavily, annoyed. "Because what I do in my leisure time is my business and no one else's. And while I call Napoleon my partner and best friend, among other things, I don't feel it's necessary to tell him about everything. Am I not allowed a few secrets?"

"Of course, you are. But I have the feeling that you have more than a few secrets."

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo awoke to the haunting memory of his body being consumed by the relentless agony of Dr. Dabree's truth serum and the remorse of knowing that he had given away enough information to allow his captors to find his partner. It would only be a matter of time before he would be sharing his cell.<p>

He sat up slowly; there was not much pain except a throat raw from screaming and the dull body-ache from being confined. He was miserably thirsty and nauseous from an empty stomach. He expected those needs to go unfulfilled for a long time.

The door opened and Agnes Dabree walked in to gloat over her prize capture. "Good morning, Mr. Solo. Or, should I say, good afternoon."

There was only one thing he was interested in and it wasn't the time of day.

"I'm sure you're wondering if Mr. Kuryakin has joined us yet."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Napoleon said, though his throat hurt to speak and his voice was little more than a croaking sound.

"My associates have just begun to search the Cape Cod peninsula, but don't worry, we'll find him soon."

"I'm not worried, at all," he lied with a grin. "I really don't know where he is. The place you forced out of me was where I dropped him off. He could be anywhere by now." _God!_ he thought desperately, _let him be anywhere else but where I said he was_.

"Your voice is quite hoarse, Mr. Solo. Perhaps you would like something to drink."

"I wouldn't want you to go out of your way, Dr. Dabree, but since you seem to be offering, water would be fine. Something to eat as well would be even better."

"I'll see what can be arranged. I wouldn't want to get the reputation for mistreating my guests."

"Well, I'll tell you, if I'm asked, I'll certainly give my sparkling recommendation to my friends. Provided, that is, your cuisine warrants it."

"I would appreciate the gesture, Mr. Solo, but I don't think your chances of being able to recommend me are very good. You see, I have every intention of either killing you outright or making you wish you were dead."

"Maybe you'd like to tell me how Illya fits into all of this."

Dabree smiled wolfishly and her eyes behind the thick glasses grew feral. "Mr. Kuryakin will be fitting into this quite well, I assure you." She turned to leave. "I'll have Flo bring you something."

* * *

><p>The twenty-two foot cabin cruiser bobbed gracefully on the swells, anchored at the target site of the sunken <em>Aransas.<em> Inside the cabin, the two occupants prepared for their dive.

"It seems a shame to cover such an eye-catching figure with a wet suit," Illya commented affectionately as he slid a pair of rubbery leggings over his own body.

"I could say the same thing to you, Illya dear, but the water is cold and I'm not sure you wouldn't try to make love to me sixty-five feet underwater if I didn't."

"That's a notion I hadn't considered. Perhaps we should try it." The blond Russian grinned.

"That's just plain silly!" She paused for a moment, then looked at him more seriously. "How long can you hold your breath?"

"I don't know exactly; a minute-and-a-half, two minutes, maybe more." The grin widened. "With the proper encouragement, of course. How about you?"

Gretchen stared at him, as she considered and shook her head. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were crazy."

"Maybe I am. How long can you hold your breath?"

"A minute-and-a-half," she replied and smiled. "Maybe more, with proper encouragement, of course."

"Then, I'd say, we're both just a little crazy. But, since you insist on wearing that wetsuit, I won't try to seduce you at sixty-five feet."

"Too bad. I might have just let you try."

"On the contrary. At fifteen feet, it's not such a long way back up to finish what I started."

"What about the _Aransas_ and the slack water?"

"I'd put the currents on hold." Kuryakin brandished one of his rare warm smiles.

Gretchen zipped up the wetsuit jacket. "I believe you _could_ stop the tides if you chose to," she said thoughtfully. "I really do." She kissed him on the cheek. "You finish getting ready; I'm going to check the gear and put up the diving flag. I'll wait for you on deck."

"Nothing personal, Gretchen, but I prefer to check my own gear." He shrugged slightly. "Professional habit."

"Forever the suspicious agent," she replied softly, but Illya could sense a twinge of annoyance at his apparent distrust.

"I'm afraid so," he responded apologetically. He shrugged the neoprene jacket up over his shoulders, zipped it closed and fastened the snaps at the crotch, all the while, contemplating what seemed to be a fast approaching end to his vacation.

While he could honestly say he had been enjoying himself a great deal since Napoleon dropped him off, he realized that there had been more venturing into discordant discussions than the last time he and Gretchen spent a few days together. It was beginning to follow that ever-familiar pattern: good times, great sex, but the woman wanting more of him than he could give. Once again, he wondered how his partner was able to provide the intimacy women craved, yet be forgiven when he walked away, free and clear, from a relationship that never had a chance of blossoming.

An axiomatic answer came to him, and its applicability amused him to the point that he chuckled to himself aloud. "Practice makes perfect," he murmured, picked up his swim fins, and went on deck to find Gretchen and his diving equipment.

Whenever Kuryakin strapped an Aqua-Lung tank to his back, he was on a mission. He did it with the full knowledge that there were more than even odds that someone would be trying to stop him, and that they might succeed. Therefore, donning the equipment was a prelude to the entry into survival mode. Before planning this vacation, he had never considered diving for the sheer fun of it. Even now, it was hard to ignore the autonomic response to danger expressed as tightness in his upper abdomen.

Gretchen sat on a bench by the portside railing, watching him as he tightened the straps attaching the tanks to his body, and hooked a weighted belt about his slim hips. "All ready?"

He caught the face mask she tossed to him. "Lead the way, my trusty tour guide." He donned the mask as Gretchen jumped feet-first into the blue-green water, and followed. The pair added the swim fins to their attire and began the descent down the sixty-five feet to the underwater corpse of the freighter _Aransas._

As they approached the wreck of the freighter, Illya felt the nervous energy of unperceived danger give way to the nervous energy of excitement and intense interest. Here, stretched out before him, was a thing to be studied and examined—and he was actually going to have fun doing it! _Imagine, Illya Nickovetch,_ he said to himself, _exploration with no practical purpose but that of amusement!_ It was almost decadent!

Excitedly, he swam past his trusty tour guide to reach the vessel first. He was on his knees examining the twisted metal plating from a demolition performed to make the ship less a hazard to surface vessels, when Gretchen caught up with him. Curiously, she pulled him by the shoulder to look at his eyes behind the faceplate. In one quick motion, Illya pulled off his mask, removed his mouthpiece, and proceeded to kiss her, first on one cheek, then the other. It was followed by a broad open-mouthed grin that was reminiscent of earlier that morning when he raced to her from the surf: wet, naked and wildly jubilant.

Even as she watched him de-don his mask, empty it of water, and replace his mouthpiece, returning him to the semblance of sobriety once again, she couldn't help but be amazed at the complexity of the man with whom she had been sharing her bed and her body the last few days.

* * *

><p>Dr. Agnes Dabree was unhappy. The search for Kuryakin was not going well. Though she had a dozen pairs of agents deployed up and down the coastline of the Cape Cod peninsula, no one had seen the Russian and his female companion.<p>

For a fleeting moment, she considered dosing Solo with her truth serum again to force more information from him, but, at best, getting anything useful the first time had proven to be a time-consuming venture. In spite of herself, she had a grudging admiration for the UNCLE agent's tenacity to resist both the pain and the potent truth serum.

No, she would have to be patient and wait. Kuryakin would be found, and then she would continue studying the fascinating concept of stretching the boundaries of trust between partners through applied torture.

* * *

><p>Late in the afternoon on the second dive of the day, Gretchen took her underwater camera under the guise of photographing the marine life known to inhabit the freighter hulk. In reality, she wanted to capture on film the images of a normally reserved and emotionally-guarded man experiencing what might have been the most fun he had ever allowed himself to have in his entire life. The shipwreck was home to myriads of fish, crustaceans, and other creatures; the Russian appeared to be fascinated by all of it.<p>

He didn't even seem to mind when he caught her photographing him. Instead, he held up two large lobster trophies like an angler displaying his prized catch. After stuffing them into their mesh bag, Illya swam over to what appeared to be a school of fish lazily swimming along the bottom. Instead, he startled a large group of small sharks, called spiny dogfish, which engulfed him like a fountain.

When the group had dissipated, Gretchen saw that he had caught one by the tail and was running his hand over its sandpaper-like skin like a child stroking a kitten. He let go of the shark and watched it disappear into distance to find the rest of its kindred dogfish. He swam back to her and pointed to the camera. _Let me take a picture of you_, he motioned. She gave him the camera and he finished the roll of film.

At that point, Gretchen gestured that it was time to end the dive. The currents were increasing and the air in their tanks was nearly depleted. Illya handed back the camera and retrieved their mesh bag of lobsters, but she thought she could see the disappointment in his eyes.

Ten minutes later, he was offering his hand to her to help her climb aboard, and he quickly undid the straps holding his gear to his body. He reached out and grasped Gretchen by the arm and pulled her towards himself.

"Allow me, please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He undid the clasps and lowered the air tanks to the deck. The weighted belt, he let fall while he reached for the zipper of her wetsuit jacket. "I can't seem to get enough of you," he murmured. "I don't know why." When he pulled down the zipper, he was surprised to see that when she had left him to go on deck, she had removed her bikini top. "Were you really expecting me to seduce you on the dive?"

"I wanted to be open to the possibility," she said as she laid her hand along the side of his face.

"Don't you realize how dangerous that would have been?"

"Why? Because it was underwater or because you're a deadly UNCLE agent?"

He took her face in his hands. "You would never have any reason to be afraid of me." Scooping her up into his arms in a single fluid motion, he carried her to the cabin where he carefully and meticulously seduced her.

The sun was beginning to set when they motored into dock. Illya unloaded the scuba gear and wetsuits while Gretchen settled with the dock manager and secured the name of a restaurant that would cook their lobsters for them. As luck would have it, the restaurant was along the beach, catering to the locals and tourists alike who wanted to eat their catch of the day.

An hour later, they were enjoying their steaming hot lobsters with dipping butter, corn on the cob, a plate of crudities, and a bottle of champagne, at Illya's request. They sat on the beach, at first, silently satisfying the hunger the day's dives had created, and then later, the conversation started with a pleasant debriefing of the exploration of the wrecked steamship.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone get so excited over a sunken hulk before," Gretchen mused with a smile.

"I could point out that you didn't exactly seem disinterested."

"I didn't pull my mask off and plant a kiss on each of your cheeks either. For a moment, I thought you might have a touch of nitrogen narcosis."

"In sixty-odd feet of water? Hardly. I can free-dive that deep."

"Well, I was hardly expecting you to do what you did."

"But you were expecting me to try to seduce you."

"Not really."

"Then, why the shedding of the bikini top?"

"Maybe I wanted to see if you'd notice."

The blond Russian smiled. "I hate to put a pin into your bubble, but I didn't notice. I was quite distracted by my fascination of the wreck. You know, I've never dived when it hasn't been in training or for a mission."

"I believe that. Haven't you ever done anything just for fun?"

"I was trained to use time in purposeful pursuits, to not waste time."

"Having fun isn't necessarily a waste of time. Especially if you're with someone you enjoy being with." Gretchen smiled to show him that he had made the time special by being with her.

He echoed a pale reflection of her smile. "Then, I must confess that it was a doubly pleasant afternoon for me, as well."

"And I'm guessing it was one of those rare times you did do something just for fun's sake."

"More like it was one of those rare instances when I've had the time to use in such a pursuit."

"I imagine your work doesn't give you a lot of free time."

"Sometimes, it gives too much," he admitted.

Gretchen looked at him, wondering exactly what he meant, but knew enough not to ask if she wanted to keep this evening as pleasant as the day had been. Instead she asked: "Who taught you that idle time was unproductive time?"

He shrugged. "Nearly everyone I had contact with as I was growing up and beyond. My grandparents, the people I lived with when they died, the State schools, the Soviet military, UNCLE."

"Yet, here you are, enjoying yourself. You _are_ enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

Kuryakin chuckled. "Am I so aloof that you can't tell?"

"I would hope not." She slid over until she was beside him and then laid back against him until her head rested on his shoulder. "My friends tell me that I shouldn't settle for seeing you only once a year or so."

"If you see no one else in the interim, your friends advise you well."

"My work keeps me pretty busy."

"As does mine."

"Do you see other women?"

She heard him sigh that familiar sigh of annoyance. "Occasionally," he answered evenly. "Gretchen, I sincerely hope we are not venturing into old territory again."

She sat up. "I know, I know. But, there never seems to be much else to talk about otherwise. You won't talk about yourself and your work is off limits. I can't always dominate the conversation."

"My answers haven't changed." He looked at her with sympathy. "But, you keep hoping they will. As I said before, your friends have advised you well."

She turned around and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Let's go back to the camp. I want to give you another back rub." She smiled widely. "And we'll see where it leads."

He returned the smile as she hoped he would. "I think we know exactly where it's going to lead."

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo sat in his small, windowless cell and wondered if his internal clock had been keeping accurate time. Without external clues, he could only surmise how much time had passed since his capture. Dr. Dabree had been an infrequent visitor, giving him glimpses of the time frame by her grumbling about the difficulty her people were having trying to locate his partner.<p>

Her threats to put him under her truth serum again did not disturb him; it was probable that Illya and Gretchen were not where his ramblings under duress had suggested. If that was true, no amount of truth serum was going to give her the information she wanted. It was also obvious to him that she had not tried to contact Illya directly via his communicator. Intelligent as many of their adversaries were, it was something few of them ever thought to do.

Solo also knew that enough time had passed that his partner was aware of his disappearance. He was sure he had missed one check-in time, more likely, two. However, without the communicator set to broadcast a homing frequency (another oversight by his captors), Illya would have no inking where he was either.

And so, he played the waiting game: one of the most difficult and nerve-wracking gambits in his profession. The stakes were always high: one or more lives, very often his own, and/or his partner's, and the fate of the world, or a smaller portion of it. However, at present, he only knew that Dr. Dabree was centered on revenge for her fallen cohorts, and that Illya was a necessary player in her scheme. The longer the Russian remained elusive, the more frustrated she would become, and, perhaps, the quicker she would abandon her first plan and proceed on her own. Bad for him, healthy for the rest of humanity. It was an option he could live with, or rather, die with.

"Don't let her find you, Illya," he whispered out loud, not caring if she heard him or not. He sat back against the wall and played another game of mental chess.

* * *

><p>Gretchen's hair cascaded down to cover her enigmatic lover's face, while he grasped her head gently to guide her smiling, full lips to his. The early morning observation of Plovers, Herons, and Sandpipers they'd been engaged in, had given way to a leisurely course of mutual physical exploration by the two non-indigenous humans, culminating in the ultimate sexual satisfaction of the other, and afterward, satiety, as their bodies lay intertwined in the enjoyment of their shared experience.<p>

Gretchen lay with her head in the hollow of Illya's shoulder, her hand caressing the scant hair on his chest and stomach. "Illya, I know the sex is fantastic for both of us. Why then, do we wait so long between the times we see each other? We could make the time, you know."

Her touch renewed his sexual excitement, and instinctively, he drew her even closer to himself, encircled in strong arms. Two days ago, he had been thinking along the same lines, but now, Napoleon had missed three twelve-hour check-ins. Reality, his dangerous reality, was encroaching quickly on this fantasy time.

When he didn't respond vocally, she said his name, and he looked at her, confused. "I thought you were being wistfully rhetorical," he replied evenly.

She wiggled out of his embrace and sat up, leaving him to stare at her, still not understanding. "No, actually, I was I was looking for a romantic, rose-tinted lie. Or at least, a noncommittal grunt."

"Gretchen, why do you keep returning to the same tired subject?"

"Indulge me."

"I don't know how to explain it any other way. The only other options are to just say flat out that the relationship is at an end, or to start an argument that will have you happy to see me go. Neither of which I want to do."

"So, what, exactly, _are_ we doing here, then? Do you come around every year or so because you want to get laid and we already have the preliminaries out of the way?"

"That's a particularly saturnine comment, coming from you. As I recall, you've been doing a fair portion of the initiating. And while I find that particularly erotic, I am here primarily because I enjoy your company." He sat up and faced her. "However, if you truly believe that I've just been using you for little more than personal gratification, I will gather my things and leave."

"You don't have to do that."

"But it's apparent that I am not fulfilling your idea of what you wish me to be. Perhaps, I _should_ have introduced you to my partner when he dropped me off. He seems to be much more knowledgeable about what women like to hear than I do."

"You can be so damned disagreeable at times," she grumbled, folding her arms. "As a matter of fact—"

Illya cut her off with a hand to her mouth and a soft, "Shh—" When she shook her head at him, her eyes angry, he added in a whisper, "I hear voices." He slowly got to his hands and knees and crawled to the camper to peer under it at the beach. He was back in a moment, quickly gathering his clothes. "We've got company. I want you to get into the camper and lock the door."

"But, Illya—!" she protested only to have him glare at her.

"Do as I say!" he scolded her in no uncertain terms, and when he was certain she was as focused as he, he continued urgently, "Inside is my gun and communicator. Lock the door and shoot anything that comes through it."

"Even you?" she questioned, disbelieving his apparent intent.

"Yes, unless I tell you the scientific name for the Piping Plover."

_"Charadrius melodus?"_

"Yes."

"Illya, what's happening?"

"There are two men coming towards the camper who, I believe, are here to take me. I've been expecting it since I lost communication with my partner almost thirty-six hours ago. I'm going to try to lure them away from you. If I'm successful, I want you to use my communicator to report what's happened. You've seen me open it; call for Channel D. Whoever answers, tell them you want to speak to Mr. Waverly. Tell him that Napoleon and I have been captured. He will tell you what to do."

"You mean besides shoot anyone coming through the door?" She looked at him, eyes wide with fear.

He gave her a humorless smile for her ability to make light of her terror. "Something like that."

"Will I ever see you again?"

He pulled on his trousers and slipped a shirt over his head. "I sincerely hope so. Go, now, get into the camper."

While she followed his orders, he walked around the front of the camper, hands casually in his pockets. "Hi, there."

The two men were startled at his sudden appearance, but merely stopped walking. From where he stood, Illya could not see any weapon. "Good morning," one of them said courteously.

Kuryakin continued to feign innocence. "Are you lost?"

"Looking for someone."

"Well, it's just been me and several hundred water birds for the last few days."

A gun appeared. "We were told you were here with a rather attractive lady scientist."

Illya looked at the gun without changing his facial expression. That information could have only come from one source. "She went for groceries."

"In what? Her dune buggy is parked over there."

"She isn't here," Illya said emphatically.

"I think we'll just check to make sure."

At that moment, Kuryakin broke into a full run towards the surf and away from the camper and the tent. As he'd hoped, the two THRUSH began to run after him, all interest lost in who might still be in the camper. Now, if he could lure them far enough away, they might decide to not to check the camper, content with their quarry.

He was on wet sand when he felt the sting of a tranquilizing dart in his back. He pushed himself to run faster, even though it would shorten the time before the drug stopped him. Thirty seconds later, he tripped over his own feet, and landed hard and flat on the wet sand. The incoming tide splashed across his face, but the unconscious agent felt neither its chill nor tasted the salt as it flowed into his half-open mouth.

The two THRUSH looked down at the incapacitated UNCLE agent. "I'm betting his girlfriend is still in the camper," one of them said. "Want me to go back and check?"

"Too much trouble," the other one replied. "She can't do anything about it anyway. We got what we came for."

From the window in the camper, Gretchen gasped as she saw Illya collapse onto the beach. She watched as the two men who had followed him, picked up his limp form and slung the arms roughly over their shoulders to drag him to where they had parked their car. She found herself almost wishing they would come back for her, so she could empty Illya's gun into them. She shook off that foolish idea and waited instead as they disappeared across a small dune. Then she pulled both ends of the sleek silver pen, reversed the top to expose the microphone, and in a calm voice that actually startled her, spoke: "Open Channel D."

* * *

><p>Illya Kuryakin awoke with stiff neck and a throbbing headache. The stiff neck, he could immediately attribute to sitting for an extended period of time with his chin on his chest. The headache was a little side effect from the tranquilizing dart the THRUSH kidnappers had fired into him as he ran from the camper. Both discomforts were probably the least of his worries at this point, he decided.<p>

He lifted his head cautiously, not wanting to aggravate either the headache or the neck ache. He had little success; a sharp pain across his shoulders greeted him as he straightened, and in turn, caused his head to throb all the more. He sighed in resignation to both and opened his eyes.

He was alone in the room, seated in a straight chair, his wrists bound to the arms of the chair by rough leather straps. A quick glance at his unclad feet revealed a similar situation with his ankles, and another leather band encircled his chest, just below the armpits. He straightened, knowing he wasn't going anywhere quickly.

The door opened and a diminutive woman walked in, followed by a tall, classically beautiful blonde-haired woman. Kuryakin recognized the short, older woman immediately and the realization of what her presence meant sent chills down his spine. Her thick eyeglasses reminded him of an owl. The toothy smile as she looked at him made him feel like he was the rodent slated to be the owl's next meal. "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Kuryakin," she said in an uncharacteristically pleasant voice.

"Your invitation was so compelling, I simply couldn't refuse," the Russian answered in kind. "Where are you keeping Napoleon?"

"What makes you think that I have the tenacious Mr. Solo?"

"He was the only one who had the vaguest idea of where I was. You really don't expect me to believe that finding me was just a lucky happenstance."

Dr. Dabree smiled. "Since it doesn't matter, I will admit that your Mr. Solo told us where you were, though he was trying very hard not to."

"Mr. Solo is highly resistant to most of THRUSH's current concoctions. Playing with something new, are you?"

Behind a one-way glass, Napoleon, bound in a chair exactly like his partner, watched the exchange between Dr. Dabree and his friend, agonizing again over his own fragility against the truth drug and the fear that Illya would fare little better. And he didn't even know what questions the maniacal doctor could possibly ask of the Russian. "Stay strong, my friend—fight it," he whispered.

"Very perceptive, Mr. Kuryakin. It's quite new, and entirely my own formula. Eminently effective, too, I might add."

"I'm sure you're very proud of your achievement. What does all this have to do with me?"

The small-statured doctor grinned wolfishly. "Surely you don't think I'd only run one trial on a human being before releasing it to THRUSH for general use, do you? What kind of a scientist would I be?"

"Several adjectives immediately come to mind."

"It was a rhetorical question, Mr. Kuryakin."

"What a shame. They were highly descriptive adjectives. However, I do feel that I should give you this warning. THRUSH truth drugs usually make me sick to my stomach, and I had a very large breakfast before your minions caught up with me. I've also gotten fairly adept at aiming." He grinned mockingly. "Didn't you get a copy of my updated dossier?"

Napoleon had to smile in spite of himself. Leave it to his partner to attempt to torment his own tormentors.

Dabree was unfazed. "An upset stomach will be a minor inconvenience with my new formula. It had your partner writhing on his gurney screaming at the top of his lungs."

From behind the window, Napoleon felt his stomach churn in remembrance. He couldn't recall ever being in so much continuous pain as he was with her formula racing though his veins. But, those electrodes on his forehead a couple of weeks ago had come pretty close—_My God,_ Napoleon thought, _what do you have going on in that sick mind of yours, Dabree?_

"Of course," Dabree continued, "if you agree to answer my questions truthfully, I will spare you the ordeal."

"I can't guarantee cooperation without knowing the nature of the questions beforehand."

"I can promise that the questions have nothing to do with UNCLE."

Illya looked at her, perplexed. What other questions could there possibly be? "I'm afraid I don't follow," he said slowly.

"I'm interested in your last mission, Mr. Kuryakin. Particularly, when you willingly put Mr. Solo under torture."

Kuryakin's mouth dropped open slightly, but he quickly composed himself and glared back at his captor. "I'm afraid you'd find it a rather dull story."

"On the contrary, I find the whole idea fascinating. An UNCLE agent _actually_ torturing his partner, inflicting pain on the one person who has complete trust in him; suffering at the hands of the person you trust completely. That must've been a psychological nightmare for both of you."

Illya tried not to make his words sound like the pleading it was. "How about if I just say yes and we leave it at that?"

Solo shook his head. _Dabree, for God's Sake, don't make him go through that again—or me—!_

"Oh, no, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor beamed, "this is much too interesting not to study it. So, let's begin with how the two of you came to be in this situation."

"I'm really sorry to disappoint you. Mission reports are classified material. I could draw a serious reprimand from my superiors if I divulged—" He faltered a moment when Dr. Dabree took a syringe from the leather case her assistant was carrying and expressed a drop through the needle. "—any informational details about—" The needle found a vein in his lower arm. Illya gasped loudly as the first drops of serum entered him, shocked at the intensity of the pain. He struggled against the increasing excruciation, his voice rasped as his own breathing seemed to burn in his lungs, "—the—mish—" He shook his head and groaned a whimper: "_no_—" Dabree pushed the plunger of the syringe, emptying the contents into the vein in her subject's arm.

As Napoleon watched helplessly, Illya threw back his head and cried: "_Napoleon _—!" Then, he began to scream from deep in his throat as if to never stop.

Solo leaned forward in his chair as far as the bonds would let him. "_Illya—!_"

* * *

><p>After two hours and two more double-dose injections of the serum; one, when he resisted speaking English: giving his oratory in a multitude of tongues even Napoleon didn't know he spoke, Kuryakin sat slouched in the chair, breathing raggedly. His clothes were soiled from vomit and drenched with the physical cost of enduring the excruciating pain and fighting the overwhelming urge to speak freely. The Russian's face below the sweat-slick hair was swollen and flushed from screaming, glistening with perspiration, tears, blood-tinged mucous and saliva.<p>

"You are being most unco-operative, Mr. Kuryakin," Dabree commented, "but you'll be happy to know that your Mr. Solo had given you up by this time."

"_She_ must have been asking the questions," Illya mumbled in a gravelly voice.

Dr. Dabree looked up at Flo, her assistant. "Why do you say that, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Inside the room, Napoleon sighed heavily, knowing his partner was probably about to render an uncensored assessment of his love-life. "Go ahead, Illya, it won't be anything I haven't already heard before from you."

"Women—it's always women—all the time—everywhere. All the time—don't you ever turn it off, Napoleon?"

While their subject rambled on, Flo smiled in remembrance of her encounter; he had been very charming. When she saw Dabree still staring at her, she cleared her throat. "He's definitely telling the truth, Dr. Dabree."

The diminutive woman nodded. "Mr. Solo has a reputation for being a womanizer. Mr. Kuryakin appears not to approve." To the haggard figure on the chair, she said, "You don't like Mr. Solo's philandering, do you?"

"Gets in the way—the work we have to do—more important—stop THRUSH—the others—have to stop them—all of them."

"Like the ones on the last mission. You had to stop them, isn't that so, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"THRUSH wanted to use Dr. von Etske's mind-controlling device."

"I hadn't heard of that venture. Tell me about it, Mr. Kuryakin."

The drugged and pain-wracked agent tried feebly to break free of his bonds to divert the pressure to answer, but his efforts were futile. "The hardest thing I ever had to do—" he mumbled, his voice almost a sob.

Dr. Dabree smiled. Here was the information she was seeking. "What did you have to do?"

"No help for it—I was acting a part—Col. Nexor was dead and I had to impersonate him. We both knew what might happen—Napoleon set up the conditions—"

"How did you torture him?"

"Trigeminal nerve—electrical stimulation. Like having your head in a vise."

Solo shuttered in remembrance. The pain had been more like a live thing devouring his brain.

Kuryakin's voice was thick with regret. "Stalling for time—always—stalling for time so they wouldn't have to die—"

"How did you feel while you were torturing your partner, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya pulled against his bonds again. It was clear that he was fighting not to answer.

"Answer me or I'll have Flo give you another injection of the serum."

Kuryakin shook his head, his face twisted in a grimace.

"Answer the question!"

Dabree's raised voice crumbled the Russian's resolve. He drew in a ragged breath and the words tumbled from his lips. "'We tortured Napoleon to his physical limits'," he moaned softly, "'and a part of us reveled in it'."

Napoleon sat forward. _Who is we?_ he thought, unaware that Illya was quoting from an internal conversation he had had with his own reflection in the mirror in that hotel room in San Rico; the conversation that ultimately led to the mirror being shattered into numerous shards of glass on the floor and in the washbowl.

Dr. Dabree smiled broadly. "Excellent." She looked up at her assistant. "I think Mr. Kuryakin has earned a rest, Flo. Give him the other needle."

A growl from the gaunt figure strapped to the chair caught her attention. Illya had lifted his head and glared at her with red-rimmed, blood-shot eyes. Again, words began to pour from his mouth: vulgar insults and curses in Russian, each one viler than the one before. He tried to stiffen his muscle to make it harder for the needle to penetrate his arm, but his strength was gone, and she injected the solution easily into a vein. The hate-filled curses died on his lips and his head fell forward onto his chest. His limbs, however, trembled in their bonds, the muscles over-stimulated and unable to completely relax.

Behind the one-way glass, Napoleon Solo heaved a deep sigh for his friend. As he continued to watch, two of Dabree's strong-armed guards entered, carrying two buckets of water, each.

"Clean up our squalid guest and show him to his 'suite'. It's time now to attend to our other guest, Mr. Solo."

The first bucket-full of water splashed over the decrepit agent, and forced a gasp from him, even in his drugged stupor. Napoleon surmised the water must have been ice cold to elicit that much of a response. Once again, a deep pang of guilt wrenched his gut as the guards emptied their remaining buckets over Kuryakin, undid the leather straps, and carried their water-logged burden from the room.

Dr. Dabree "looked" at Solo through the one-way glass. "Time for a chat, Mr. Solo," she said with a smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Act III: "It's gratifying to know one's work is appreciated."<strong>

"I've known a lot of sadistic monsters in my life, Dabree, but you have to be at the top of the list," Napoleon said as Flo loosened the straps holding him to the chair.

The agent had considered bounding out of the chair after all of the bonds were removed, but the THRUSH guard in the traditional grey-blue jumpsuit and beret, was holding his own Special on him. Solo had a common prejudice with many law enforcement officers: he felt it the height of degradation to be shot with his own weapon. For the time being, he was resigned to go with his captors' agenda with the hope that a more favorable situation would present itself. _Before he and Illya were face-to-face as victim and torturer,_ he added hopefully.

Agnes Dabree smiled a cruel smile. "I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Solo. It's gratifying to know one's work is appreciated."

"I fully intend to repay you for your past services."

"That won't be necessary. The outcomes are reward enough."

Napoleon looked up at Flo, who continued to undo the straps. "The one I can't quite figure out is you, Miss Flostone. You're beautiful and intelligent; why are you in cahoots with this fruitcake?"

"Listen to yourself, Mr. Solo," Flo replied smoothly. "Your own words are the answer."

"I really thought I was being extremely complimentary."

"I'm sure you did. You are correct: I _am_ intelligent and I _am_ beautiful. Which attribute do you hold in the higher esteem?"

Her meaning became clear and Napoleon smiled in understanding. "I think I'm beginning to grasp the idea of where this is going. You're a man-hater."

"And it's men like you who are only able to see the outward appearance. To you, we're one thing and one thing only: a toy to play with, and when you're done, you discard us without a second thought."

"Well, at the risk of getting my face slapped, I would dearly love to prove to you how wrong you are about me. I appreciate all the qualities a woman may possess, but especially her mind."

Flo laughed, a sound Solo found all the more cruel because of her apparent intelligence and beauty. "Even your partner thinks you're a bed-hopping philanderer."

"My partner can be quite a prude when he wants to be. Truth be told, I think he's just jealous."

"He didn't sound jealous in the least, and he _was_ telling the truth."

"Illya and I have differing philosophies when it comes to women and we respect each other's differences."

"The speculation at THRUSH is that your Russian partner doesn't like women at all."

Now, it was Solo's turn to laugh. "You didn't see who he dragged me all the way up the coast to get a glimpse of. A shame you didn't ask him about that when you had him juiced up with your truth serum."

Dr. Dabree had been enjoying the exchange between her assistant and Solo, but she was beginning to see a tell-tale look of doubt in the younger woman's eyes. "That's enough, Flo. You're becoming mesmerized by the legendary Napoleon Solo charm. Remember what he did to Dr. Elmont and David."

Flo stood back from the chair and the straps, now completely undone. "You're right, Dr. Dabree." Then she took a step forward and slapped Solo hard across the cheek.

Napoleon sighed against the pain, and then looked up. "Well, you can't say I didn't try." The guard pulled him out of the chair and slipped handcuffs on, behind his prisoner's back. The dark-haired agent had little choice but to be led back to his cell.

* * *

><p>Illya awoke face-down on a rough mattress in a cot frame, to which he had been shackled, both wrists and ankles. He shivered from the still-damp clothing that clung to his skin, his body one giant ache. For a long moment, confusion clouded his mind, until the memory of the truth drug burning in his veins surfaced and twisted in his stomach. There was little wonder in his mind why Napoleon had given away his location; and he had a disquieting feeling the information he had provided would be equally damaging to both of them.<p>

The door to the cell opened and Dr. Dabree entered with two gun-bearing guards and the strikingly beautiful woman he had seen before.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Kuryakin," the diminutive doctor said cheerfully. "We have some things to discuss."

Kuryakin twisted around so he lay supine on the cot, facing her. "I hope it's not the bill for the accommodations," he said hoarsely. "As dungeons go, I've stayed in better. Though, I must admit, the entertainment was certainly unique."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was anything but a compliment."

"No matter. I'm going to tell you what I want from you and you're going to comply."

"I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed, because the answer is, unequivocally, no."

"You UNCLE agents never seem to grasp the concept of 'you have no choice' without threats, do you?"

"It's the first thing I learned in Defiance 101."

"We're going to study the phenomenon of UNCLE agents being tortured by their partners."

A cold icicle of anxiety bored itself into Kuryakin's gut, but his expression remained impassive. "Is there such a thing? I should think that would be a contradiction in terms."

"You understand my interest, then."

"Not really. But, then I never understood the sadistic perversions you and most of your cohorts seem to be so deeply steeped in."

"On the contrary. You understand perfectly."

"I believe we did cover that in Know-Thine-Enemy 101. I was a straight A student."

"I'm sure you were. But surely you remember our little talk while under the gentle persuasion of my truth serum. We talked about the torture you put Mr. Solo through for the sake of your mission."

Illya gave her a questioning look. "Did I? I don't recall."

"I'll wager that you remember everything in vivid detail." A hint of the remembered agony showed in her captive's eyes and she smiled. "Yes, you remember."

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you are correct. What of it?"

"Psychology, Mr. Kuryakin. The concept of trust and betrayal; what does it take to shatter that trust between partners. Trust that must be absolute for partners to function well together."

"A concept that would be foreign to you, Dabree. Trust isn't a word in the THRUSH vocabulary."

"How much damage was done to your partnership when you pretended to be Colonel Nexor, pasted those electrodes onto Mr. Solo's forehead, and turned up the voltage? Does he know that, secretly, you enjoyed the power you had over him?"

The cold dread in his stomach escalated to full nausea. "I will not participate in your experiments, Dabree. And neither will Napoleon. You'll have to find your amusement elsewhere."

"Very well, we'll play this your way." She turned to one of her guards. "Bring him to my laboratory. He needs an incentive." She looked at Illya again. "And if you insist on being obstinate, I will have Flo inject you with another concoction of mine that paralyzes the voluntary muscles and the guards will carry you. They have orders to be less than gentle with you."

The guards unshackled Illya and allowed him to stand. "That won't be necessary. I can make an exception in this case."

Dabree nodded. "Very good. Flo, put the shackles back on him, and the blindfold." She smiled. "You see, I really don't trust you to keep your word."

Resigned, Kuryakin waited as Dabree's assistant recuffed his hands behind him, shackled his ankles and finally, tied a black cloth over his eyes. They led him to the door and through a series of hallways until Dabree was confident that her prisoner was disoriented enough to not be able to find his way back to this room if the unthinkable, his escape, occurred.

Flo pulled the blindfold from his eyes, which widened abruptly when he saw what he had been led to the laboratory to see.

"So, you recognize this little apparatus, Mr. Kuryakin?" Dabree said with a smirk.

"Your brain-killer machine was dismantled, Dabree," he replied, trying to convince himself that he was not seeing what was plainly in front of him. He had been with the team that took apart that machine, bolt by bolt.

"Did you honestly believe that I was incapable of duplicating my work?"

"We had hoped—" Illya said, as he stared at the device and a cold shudder permeated his body that had nothing to do with his damp clothing.

"This model is untested. You and Mr. Solo would make ideal test subjects."

"I saw the results from this one's predecessor. You realize that's it's my duty to prevent you from using this one as well—"

"Yes, yes, I know, or die trying. UNCLE agents are so predictable. How would you like to be the first test subject of this new model?"

"It's an honor I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Sorry."

"Predictable response. Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. What would you do to keep Mr. Solo from being my first test subject?"

"You haven't proven to me that Napoleon is even still here or that that machine of yours isn't just a mock-up."

Dabree turned to her assistant. "Flo, have the guards bring Mr. Rollo here from his cell." The beautiful blonde woman nodded to Dr. Dabree exited to carry out her task. "As for Mr. Solo being here," Dabree continued, "bring Mr. Kuryakin over to the monitor so he can be convinced." She pressed a switch and a dark-haired male figure pacing in a cell appeared. "And to convince you that this isn't just video representation of your partner—" She picked up a microphone and spoke: "Good morning, Mr. Solo."

As Illya watched, Napoleon became instantly alert and looked up in the direction of the sound. "What have you done with Illya?" he demanded.

Illya strained forward to be near the microphone, but the guards held him firmly. He got out the first syllable of his partner's name before the cloth that had been over his eyes gagged him.

"He's fine, for the time being. He wanted proof that you are still our guest, so I have provided him with that proof."

She snapped off the monitor just as Solo began to blurt out: "Illya, don't—!"

"Are you convinced, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Still gagged, the blond-haired agent could only nod.

"Good." Dr. Dabree smiled as Flo returned with a small-statured man, Illya assumed was Mr. Rollo. Dabree addressed the man cordially, but Rollo cowered before her.

"Please, Dr. Dabree, I only make that one mistake. Please, give me another chance!"

Dr. Dabree looked over at Illya. "This stupid, incompetent individual has displeased me with his ineptness. I think he can be exonerated by convincing you that my device is quite real." She returned her gaze to the frightened little man. "Do you think you can do that if I wipe clean your mind, Mr. Rollo?"

The eyes of her test subject widened further in terror and he began to struggle.

"Put him on the gurney, Flo."

Dabree's assistant and one of the guards holding Illya dragged Rollo to the gurney situated beneath the business end of the mind-kill apparatus. With just one guard holding him, Illya was able to free himself from the gag.

He pulled against his captor as far has he was allowed. "Surely he couldn't have done anything to warrant this kind of punishment," he argued.

She walked over to the control panel for the device. "Oh, he hasn't, but he's more useful this way." She flicked on the power switch.

"Don't do it, Dabree. He's an innocent in all of this."

"Yes, I believe you UNCLE agents take an oath to protect the innocents, don't you? Then, you know the words that will stop it."

As much as Kuryakin hated to admit it, she had his Achilles' heel. He was duty-bound to protect the Innocents, with his life, if necessary. "I concede to your wishes," he said, defeated.

Dabree turned off the machine and smiled wolfishly. "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin." To the guards: "Take him back to his cell and get him some clean and dry clothing. And some food, if he wants it." As the guards led him away, she called after him, "We'll discuss the 'experiment' later this afternoon."

When Kuryakin was gone from the room, she turned back to Flo. "You know what to do."

A malicious smile spread across the beautiful woman's face and she nodded.

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo sank down on his cot and gazed disconcertingly about the cell that had been his world for the last few days. The solitude of his captivity was beginning to weigh on him. Gregarious by nature, he was missing human contact; even Dabree's infrequent visits when she taunted him were more desirable than this isolation. Weighing just as heavily, however, was his own guilt for allowing Dabree to extract Illya's whereabouts from him.<p>

Now, she had them both, ready to use his partner to mete out the revenge she must have been planning for years. For the first time in their partnership, Napoleon was unsure of Illya's strength of will, despite the assurances to the contrary from the stoic Russian, _correction_, Ukranian/Gypsy orphan. The Gurnius Affair had deeply wounded his partner, and Solo knew psychological wounds healed slowly and were easily reopened. Dabree was determined to do that very thing.

Napoleon knew he could withstand the physical pain of any torture the maniacal doctor could concoct, but he had been psychologically wounded, too. In his solitude, his mind played and replayed the superlative performance of his partner as Colonel Nexor. Even knowing that the man in the Nazi uniform was his trusted partner and friend did not change what was had been done to him; it was still torture. Then there was Kuryakin's shame-filled confession later—Solo had put up a convincing argument; but now, his mind was beginning to second-guess his conviction to absolute trust in his partner for all things. That doubt was beginning to chip away at his own strength of will.

* * *

><p>Dr. Dabree looked up from her notebook as the guards ushered Kuryakin into the lab. "Why, Mr. Kuryakin, you almost look human."<p>

"I want to discuss a counter-offer to your initial proposal."

"I'm listening."

"Reverse Napoleon's and my roles, have him put me under torture and afterwards, keep me for your experimentation."

"How noble of you. But, why would I ever consider letting Mr. Solo go?"

"You want to wound him psychologically. If you do as I suggest, you will succeed. And he will be able to recall what you did to him countless times in the future. Just as you remember what he did to you."

The small woman's face changed as she automatically thought of her beloved David and Dr. Elmont. For Illya, this was a glimmer of hope. "Napoleon might even be driven to reckless revenge. And you would have him once again." In reality, the blond agent knew Solo would go on, just as he would under the same circumstances. He would grieve, certainly, but the focus would be to do the job even better than before as an apt memorial to a fallen partner. At least, that was the official story.

Dabree looked up from her reverie and smiled at her prisoner. "An excellent try, Mr. Kuryakin. But it eliminates what I want to study."

"Then, I refuse to co-operate."

"Are you forgetting Mr. Rollo?"

"No, I'm just still dubious about the functioning of your machine. You played me quite well before, but I've had time to reconsider."

"I thought you might." She looked up at one of the guards. "Have Flo come in now."

The guard opened the door and the blonde bombshell of a nurse entered leading the small-statured Mr. Rollo. The man shuffled along, his face devoid of expression, the eyes blank and staring. Illya looked at him uneasily, a hard knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

"After you left, we gave the machine its first trial run. I'm quite satisfied with the results. Are you sure you want to subject Mr. Solo to this kind of a life?"

"I don't believe for a moment that if I do what you want, you won't use that thing on him anyway."

"And if I said I'd consider setting Mr. Solo free after you do? You can call your people to have him rescued."

"Your past performance fails to elicit confidence in any of your promises."

"I can promise that if you don't do what I want, Mr. Solo will be brought to the laboratory right now and I'll erase every trace you ever knew of him. Then, I'll see he's delivered to Mr. Waverly with a message that you'll be following in a few days after I've tried a few of my other new formulas on you." When the blond Russian did not respond, Dabree continued. "Flo, take a guard and deliver Mr. Solo."

"That won't be necessary," Illya answered quietly.

"I'm surprised it took you as long as it did to decide."

The blue eyes glared back at her. "You'll have to forgive my lapse. I was preoccupied by the determination of the amount of pressure I would need to apply to snap your neck."

"At least you weren't your wasting time."

"It's generally not a weakness of mine. Be assured that if I am able to get free, you will know my agenda."

Dabree smiled. "What a shame you're not working for THRUSH. Does UNCLE know how cold-blooded and ruthless you are?"

"Invariably, but I keep it all contained until it's needed."

"That's good, Mr. Kuryakin, because you are certainly going to need both very soon. Take him to the 'interrogation' room. In a half hour, put Mr. Solo in the observation room. Mr. Kuryakin should be prepped by then."

* * *

><p><strong>Act IV: "How to sever a friendship"<strong>

"Mr. Kuryakin, here is how this little experiment is going to be performed."

Bound to the same chair in which he had endured the agony of Dabree's truth serum, Illya looked up at his captor and assumed an air of indifference. The memory of the pain and humiliation suffered in the chair, however, made the effort doubly hard.

"I am going to set up an IV through which you will be infused with a harmless yellow fluid. Mr. Solo, however, will believe that it is a potent hypnotic formula that will alter both your conscious and subconscious mind. You are expected to act like you are resisting the so-called 'drug', but in the end you will succumb to it. Then, you will be instructed to assume the persona of this Colonel Nexor you impersonated. The lab will be set up with a slant board and electrical panel. You will attach the electrodes to Mr. Solo as before and go on from there."

"So, your use of the word 'performed' was not unintentional."

"You understand me perfectly. I used that word because you are going to be giving the performance of your life. If Mr. Solo suspects in any way that you are not under the influence of my hypnotic drug, the brain-kill machine, as you called it, will be nearby to show you the error of your ways. I will then have the pleasure of watching the guards carry out their orders to riddle your body with their automatic rifles."

It took Illya just moments to realize that he was facing a no-win situation. He was a casualty regardless of the final outcome. So, be it; he had been long prepared for the inevitable. But Napoleon's future was not as clear-cut. "And if I give you a stellar performance? He will be allowed to escape?"

Dabree cackled a laugh that was almost comical. "Still negotiating, Mr. Kuryakin? That's positively arrogant as you have nothing to bargain with."

"But I do, doctor. I have my voluntary co-operation. All I need do is break character and your little experiment is a failure. And if I fry Napoleon's brain with the electrodes, you have nothing. Your revenge goes unfulfilled."

"You would willingly kill your partner?" Dabree was amazed.

"Yes," Kuryakin lied. "And I would expect the same from him."

"This is surprising. I'm intrigued. Very well, Mr. Solo will have the opportunity to escape afterward if he chooses."

"Then it is a bargain."

"How is it that you're trusting that I will keep the bargain?"

A sinister, wolfish grin spread across Illya's lips. "Because if you don't. I will most assuredly break your neck, even when riddled with bullets from two THRUSH rifles."

Though the blond agent was securely strapped to his chair, Dr. Dabree eyed him uneasily. The stories of UNCLE's Russian agent were legendary throughout the THRUSH organization, giving him an almost supernatural aura. At the very least, the slight, short-of-stature man was one to be reckoned with. He had, after all, had had three double doses of her truth serum before he broke.

She turned to her guard. "Bring Mr. Solo to the observation room. It's time to start the experiment." She gave her captive a smile. "Break a leg, Mr. Kuryakin."

* * *

><p>Solo looked up at the sound of the key in the lock of his cell door. Two guards with rifles motioned for him to get up the cot and come with them.<p>

"What have you done with Illya?" the dark-haired agent demanded, as he refused to comply.

"He's unharmed," one of the guards responded. "Dr. Dabree is ready to start her experiment."

"What experiment is that?"

"I'm authorized to take you to the observation room. She only told me I couldn't shoot you in a vital spot. Other than that I have no restrictions on how much force I can use to do that."

Napoleon stood up. "Well then, let's not keep the doctor waiting, shall we?" He went to the door where he was handcuffed from behind, and escorted to the room where he had watched his partner suffer under the influence of the truth serum.

In the other room, Illya was again, strapped to the chair, and an IV had been embedded into a vein on the back of his hand. The blond Russian was speaking to Dabree, but the connecting intercom was not turned up.

The guard tapped on the window, and the occupants turned to what was a mirror on their side.

Dabree smiled. "Ah. Mr. Solo has arrived and is ready to view your performance." She turned to Illya. "Remember, you must be convincing or he will suffer the same fate as Mr. Rollo."

Kuryakin glared back at her. "I know what to do. Get on with it."

Dabree turned up the intercom. "Now that Mr. Solo has joined us, he can see how you respond to my hypnotic formula."

"Then he won't be seeing much," Illya responded. "You've seen that I have a very high tolerance to mind-altering drugs."

"That's why we call this an experiment, Mr. Kuryakin. I'll just keep giving you more until I get what I want."

Illya looked up and gave her a taunting grin. "Is it as pleasant as the other stuff you used on me? I wouldn't want to be disappointed."

From the observation room, Solo growled at his partner. "Stop antagonizing her, Illya! When are you going to learn—?"

"You won't be disappointed," Dabree replied, "if you enjoy feeling your mind slipping out of your control." She injected 20cc of a yellow liquid into the IV tube.

Kuryakin waited for an internal count of twenty and then grimaced as if the serum had begun to affect him.

"How's your grasp on reality, Mr. Kuryakin?"

A small groan escaped Illya's throat, and he began to breathe more heavily. "Just—just fine—" He pulled against his bonds. "Hang on—hang on—" he whispered breathlessly. "_Pi_ equals three point one, four, one, five, nine—" He continued to recite numbers, pretending to use memory recall to fight off the serum, faltering and lagging between digits to show that he was losing the battle. He shook his head. "No—"

Dabree pushed another 30cc into the tubing, delighted with the Russian's performance. She almost believed the yellow liquid was having this effect.

Illya turned to Shakespeare: "To set a gloss—on faint—on faint deeds—hollow welcomes—" He was reciting from a lesser known play (Timon of Athens. The next line is "But where there is true friendship, there needs none."), but he hoped Napoleon would still pick up on it. "Recanting—good—goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown—" He coughed a moan to make it appear that the rest of the quote had failed him, and switched finally to counting in his native tongue. "_Odin—dva—tre—chetyre—pyat—shest—sem—vosem—devyat—desyat—des—yat—_ten—t_—_Nap—o—loen—I can't—!"

"Illya—" Napoleon whispered as Dr. Dabree injected another 30cc into the tube. Illya was silent, his chin on his chest.

"You can hear me, can't you? Nod your head." The blond head lolled loosely against the chest. "Very good. I want you to look up at me and tell me who you are."

Illya lifted his head and opened unfocused eyes toward his captor. "I don't know," he replied, monotone.

Napoleon shook his head. "Fight it, Illya—you've got to," he pleaded.

Dabree smiled once more. "I will tell you who you are. Your name is Colonel Maxillian Nexor, Jr." She looked down at a sheet of paper on which Flo had written all that THRUSH had found out about the Nazi hold-overs. "You are the son of Maxillian Nexor, Sr. and were raised with the purpose of taking his place. You idolize your superior, Marshall Zoltan Gurnius and have the singular goal of seeing his vision of world control come to fruition. He is the man you impersonated on your last mission."

The dull eyes blinked once and began to scan the room. They settled finally on Dr. Dabree and grew glaringly cold. _"Was ist diese Stelle?"_ he said harshly. _"Noch wichtiger ist, Wer sind Sie?(What is this place? More importantly, who are you?)"_

In the other room, Napoleon scrutinized the blond man for a sign that it was really his partner giving another supreme performance and not his partner brain-washed into believing he was the elder Nazi's sadistic accomplice. So far, he couldn't tell. _Give me a sign, Illya. Any sign—_

"I am Marshall Gurnius. You've been held by the enemy and were given drugs, which altered your ability to think clearly. They are still being cleared from your blood."

The blue eyes widened in surprise. "_Herr_ _Marshall Gurnius, bitte verzeihen Sie mir nicht erkennt dich!_(Marshall Gurnius, Sir, please forgive me for not recognizing you!)"

"Don't trouble yourself, my friend. Your mind will become clearer soon. In the meantime, it would be preferable for you to speak English."

"As you wish, sir." He looked down at his bound arm and feet, and looked up again at his leader, confusion in apparent on his face. "Marshall, sir, why am I bound like a prisoner?"

"We were concerned that you might hurt yourself while under the influence of the drugs."

"I am under control now, Herr Marshall. These will no longer be necessary."

"Be patient for a little while longer, please. We have a prisoner from the organization from which you were rescued. You will have the opportunity to apply your special kind of revenge to him."

A malicious smile formed on the blond man's lips. "I look forward to it, Herr Marshall."

"Allow us to make the prisoner ready for you. Then we will escort you to him."

"Please, do not take too long. Confinement has always been a problem for me."

Dabree smiled at her captive as she switched off the communications through the two way mirror. "You are very convincing as Colonel Nexor, Mr. Kuryakin. And it had better continue to be convincing or your Mr. Solo will be pulled underneath my brain-kill apparatus, which, for your information, will be just behind his head with Flo ready to activate it. Too little time for you to save him if he sees through your personna."

Kuryakin glared at her with bearly concealed wrath. "I look forward to seeing the expression on your face when I snap your neck with my bare hands," he said, venom dripping from his words.

"Rest assured, it will be the last thing you ever do," Dabree replied, though she couldn't completely hide the uneasiness his bearing did to her. This was a man filled with hate, and, if given the slightest chance, he would make good his threat. She was reluctant to see him released from the confines of the chair, but she could not keep him there with the part he was to play. Enough guards with them in the laboratory would have to suffice.

She looked up at the two armed men positioned on either side of the chair. "I will contact you when Mr. Solo is ready." She motioned to Flo who joined her at the door.

Illya stepped through the open door of the laboratory, his gaze circumventing the room as if entering it for the first time. What he was actually looking for was another way out of the laboratory and how close the brain-killer machine was to Napoleon. He saw immediately that Dabree had been truthful when she said it would be just behind his head. It would take less than five seconds for her asssistant to pull the slant board under the part which released the brain-destroying rays. In the same glance, he saw Solo strapped to a black upholstered bench, tilted at angle between 45 and 90 degrees.

The handsome, dark-haired agent stared back, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. "Illya?"

Kuryakin hardened his expression and turned to Dr. Dabree. "He doesn't look like much of a menace," he commented mildly. "Who is he?"

Dr. Dabree was also evaluating the Russian's continuing performance. "You don't recognize him?"

Illya glared at the man strapped to the board. "Is there a reason for me to know him?"

Solo took the opportunity to try to break through the supposed conditioning or, at least, give his partner a chance to give him a sign the ploy was all an act. _And damn good one, too_, he thought. "Illya, you've got to fight the programing. You're not Colonel Nexor."

Kuryakin glanced sideways at Dabree. "He seems somewhat delusional."

"Don't let Mr. Solo's appearance deceive you. He's a dangerous man. Most importantly, Colonel, he's our enemy and a threat to my plans."

Illya grinned. "Then, we can't have him running around spoiling what you've worked so hard to achieve, can we?"

"I knew you would agree. I believe the set-up here calls for electrical stimulation of the trigeminal nerve."

"My favorite method."

"Let's proceed." She escorted him to the slant board and picked up three wired electrodes.

Illya took them from her. "Allow me, Marshall Gurnius." He held then in front of Solo's line of sight. " Do you like games, Mr. Solo? We are going to play a game—a nice, _quiet game_of chess.(This is a veiled reference to a chess gambit Solo used against Gervaise Revel, in the Guicco Piano Affair. In Italian, _guicco piano_ means "quiet game")."

"So far, I don't think much of your opening move."

"The strategy will become apparent as we proceed. My way: slowly, painfully."

"I know."

"You have been in this situation before? How inept of you."

_Was that a signal?_ It sounded like a tease Illya would use. He wasn't sure. "Yeah, my partner was doing it," he said tersely, hoping Kuryakin would give him a less subtle clue.

"I would be inclined to find a new partner," was the amused reply. "Although, it is quite academic at this point." Illya moistened the electrodes with a low resistance gel and positioned them: one on the middle of the forehead, and the other two on the temples.

Desperately, Napoleon searched for something that might inadvertantly make Illya slip if this whole scenario was nothing more than a frightening charade. When the solution finally came to him, he was almost reluctant to use it, for it was cruel and broke an unspoken trust. He had no other choice. "Get your filthy hands off of me, you half-breed _tsigani_ bastard!"

Kuryakin smiled but it took all of his will to keep a reaction from leaking through to his voice. "I believe you have me confused with someone else, Mr. Solo." Inwardly, he was despondent. _You have no idea how much it kills me to have to do this again to you, Napoleon_. _You can hate me later, if we survive._

Solo stared at the blond-haired man, more than a little surprised that the insult had garnered no reaction. His inate optimism, however, would not let him admit that the Nexor persona, even drug-controlled, could not be breached. On the other hand, if his partner was faking it and didn't give him a sign soon, there was going to be hell to pay later. Either way, he was going to crack the veneer, if it was the last thing he did.

Illya had no idea how long he had applied electricity to Napoleon's facial nerves that first time in San Rico. The time seemed to have crawled intermidably as he unwittingly watched his partner twitch and moan from the exquisite pain. But that was nothing compared to how it crept by now. He was moving the dial by infinitesimal degrees, increasing the pain in almost unrecognizable amounts to help Solo adapt. The ploy was undoubtedly effective, for Napoleon was not struggling mutely against the pain as before—quite the opposite: Solo was hurling strings of ethnic and personal affronts.

While Kuryakin understood the why of it, under ordinary circumstances, more than a few of the vilifications, would have earned the dark-haired agent a clout in the mouth. Under the deception, he could only accept the stinging remarks by turning up the voltage and swallowing the remorse.

Finally, the electricity level was approaching that which Kuryakin had used in San Rico. Illya glanced down at the dials on the panel in front of him, and then gazed hopelessly up at his partner lying rigid on the slant board, eyes squeezed shut. Illya had to end it, soon, for both their sakes.

Dabree was fascinated by Solo's tenacity as well as Kuryakin's resolve. "Hurry up, Nexor, finish him off," she prodded under the guise of Gurnius.

"It is better done slowly, Herr Marshall," Illya said, desperately looking for a way out. She gave him none that he could see, so, finally, with a deep sigh, he broke character. "This has gone far enough!" he said loudly in his normal voice.

Napoleon opened his eyes wide and stared, astonished at the sudden change of his torturer's demeanor. "Illya—" he managed to whisper.

Kuryakin ignored him. "I'm not going to pander to your sadistic appetite anymore."

"Then you will reap the consequences of your decision." Dabree raised her hand to signal Flo.

Before the assistant could move, Illya pulled the electrodes from Solo's forehead and ripped open the damp shirt to reveal bare skin. Then he planted the electrodes over his partner's heart.

Napoleon gasped audibly and shook his head. "Illya, what are you doing?"

Illya turned to the console, hand on the dial, ready to twist to maximum. He looked over at Solo with a pained, apologetic expression. "Forgive me, my friend, but if this doesn't work, I'll not be far behind you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Suddenly, the lights in the room and on the console winked out and the electrical hum that had been the background of the entire torturous scene was silent. _Kuryakin sighed heavily as the pressure of his performance left him in a surge and reached up to free Napoleon's wrist from the leather strap._

"We've got to get out of here," he breathed as he freed the hand.

Before he could move to unloose his partner's left hand, the right one caught his throat in a stranglehold. "You goddam son-of-a-bitch," Solo snarled as he felt Kuryakin's hands instinctively grasp at his wrist.

Illya was amazed at the strength of the hand around his throat. He tried to speak, but Solo had effectively collapsed his windpipe, cutting off speech and air, with his anger-fueled retaliation. He reached up with the heel of his hand to push against the dark-haired agent's chin. A moment later, he heard Napoleon grunt in pain. Almost instantly, the hand around his throat eased. Kuryakin managed to gasp Solo's name before he felt a needle-stick in his own neck. A wave of dizziness hit him and his knees buckled under his weight. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Solo's last, fleeting, conscious thought had been the realization that Dr. Dabree had saved him from being killed by his own, _trusted_, partner.

* * *

><p>Napoleon awoke in his cell atop his bare cot; his head throbbed from the tranquilizer and the electrical stimulation of his trigeminal nerve. Wave after wave of knife-edged pain traveled along his facial nerves, swelling his headache towards a full-blown migraine. His stomach twisted with nausea and he almost gagged on the bile at the back of his throat.<p>

A heavy sigh from the foot end of his cot brought Solo completely to alertness and he sat up quickly despite the nearly blinding pain in his head. A thatch of blond hair identified the source of the sound as Kuryakin, still senseless from the effects of the tranquilizer. Suddenly, Napoleon was furious without fully knowing why, the anger centered on the motionless blond-haired man.

Napoleon struggled up from the cot, and stumbled over to the other cot. "Get up," he said loudly over agony of his migraine. He swayed slightly and leaned into the wall with outstretched arms across the cot to keep from falling. "Illya—wake up!" He reached down to shake a shoulder, but lost his balance and toppled over onto Kuryakin instead.

"Hey! That hurts!" the semi-conscious agent protested, instinctively pushing the weight off of himself. Solo was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

That indignity in conjunction with his pounding headache escalated the anger into rage. With teeth bared, Napoleon attacked the figure on the cot, grabbing two hand-fuls of the straw-colored hair and fell backwards, pulling the startled occupant from the cot. "I said, _GET UP, _you Slavic son-of-a-bitch!"

Kuryakin rolled away from Napoleon and retreated to the adjacent wall, his hands raised instinctively to defend himself. He came fully awake staring at Napoleon, who was glaring back at him from the floor beside the cot. "Napoleon—"

"I deserve an explanation for what happened in that room," Solo hissed, barely containing his wrath.

The blond agent did not move. "I agree. I fully intended to give you one, if we survived."

With effort, Solo pulled himself up onto the cot and sat facing Illya with an expression the Russian had seen before but never aimed at him. "_If we survived_? This had better be one hell of an explanation."

Illya got to his feet, but stayed at the wall. He wasn't sure what Napoleon might do if he did more than that. "Actually, it is. Where would you like me to begin?"

"How about where you were going to kill me with those electrodes? And what was that elegant line? 'If this doesn't work, I'll not be far behind'?"

"I'd rather start at the beginning. And with you a little more in control of yourself."

"You were frying my brain for the second time in less than a month and then you were going to shock me in the heart! You're goddam lucky I'm in as much control as I am!"

"Where's that unconditional trust you're supposed to have in me?"

"It gets really shaky when my _partner_ gambles with my life without my permission."

"You had a much different viewpoint several weeks ago when the situation was remarkably similar," Kuryakin observed tersely.

"My _partner_ didn't keep me in the dark about his intentions several weeks ago."

"There was nothing to keep from you several weeks ago, Napoleon. You set up the circumstances."

"Well, I didn't this time. Guess you feel pretty superior being in the 'know' when your _partner_ doesn't have any idea what's going on. Kind of like that time with the mind-reading machine; 'Merlin: code seven'.("The Foxes and Hounds Affair" written by Peter Allan Fields and Eric Bercovicci, directed by Alf Kjellin)" Solo's lip curled over his eyetooth in a scowl of disgust. "You _are_ ignobly marvelous."

Illya frown deeply, rapidly losing own temper. "Do you want an explanation or don't you?" he snarled.

"Yeah, tell me why you couldn't even let me know what you were doing was an act."

"I did everything but hang a banner on the wall! How was I to know you were incapable of recognizing something that wasn't as plain as the nose on your face?"

"Call me obtuse, but you didn't _do_ or _say_ anything that could even be misconstrued as a message!"

"You _are _obtuse! Or are you just getting too soft to be able to _think_ through a little pain?"

"Maybe you'd like to be on the receiving end sometime. I can arrange it."

Now the Russian was full-blown angry. "I _have_ been on the receiving end, you pompous ass; more times than I can count. Dabree didn't leave me any options."

"Let me see: torture me or she'll kill me instead. Right? That's fuckin' lame excuse."

Furiously, Illya grabbed the front of Napoleon's shirt and pulled him up from the cot. "Will you listen to me? She has another machine like the one she was going to use on Waverly! She was going to test it on you if I refused!"

Solo pushed the shorter man away from the grasp on his shirt. "Did you even see this new machine?"

"Of course, I did! Do you honestly think I'd take what she says at face value with no proof?"

"Right now, you don't want to know what I'm thinking. How do you know the thing even works?"

"She was going to demonstrate it on one of her people, some underling who didn't perform to her satisfaction."

"_Was_ _going_ to demonstrate it. I take that to mean that she didn't go through with it."

"She did use it. I saw the man later; he was like Niles Bergstrom: vacant and unresponsive. She had the machine positioned directly behind your head the whole time! The only way I could disable it was to make her cut the electricity to the lab. I had to make her think I was willing to kill you than let her lobotomize you. Dabree doesn't really want you dead."

"So, if you were wrong, and she called your bluff, was that piece of eloquent phrasing you used going to be your _Russian_ justification for killing me?"

"I wasn't wrong," Illya growled. He was quite ready to physically pay Solo back for the ethnic slurs he bore in silence for the sake of his partner's life. "And I did what I had to do."

"That's your problem, Illya. You can't effectively talk your way out of a situation; it's why you end up in Medical ten times more often than I do."

Kuryakin crossed his arms belligerently. "So, _Napoleon,_ what would have been _your_ alternative solution to this dilemma?"

Solo smiled what would have been a charming smile if the eyes above it hadn't been glaring. "I'm sure a solution would have presented itself."

Kuryakin took a step backwards, a look of incredulity on his face. "That's the most ridiculous, most inane thing I've ever heard. And what were you going to do if that solution never materialized? _Charm_ your way out of her lobotomizing you?"

"No, Illya. _Talk_ her out of doing it. Turn the situation to my favor. Show her how a live, intact UNCLE agent is worth more to her than a dead or brain-dead one."

Illya's reply was bitter. "I should have let her use that machine on you. No one would have known the difference. _Your _problem, Napoleon, is that you don't like it if you're not in charge. It's why you always pull that 'senior agent by two years' card on me when it looks like I might disagree with your agenda. You forget who's pulled your ass out of countless tight spots. You don't do it alone, you know."

Solo nodded. "Yes," he said with mock gratitude. "I must admit, you do come when you're called." He turned his back on Illya's shocked look of disbelief and went to the door. "Dabree!" he called, "I think Mr. Kuryakin would like to go back to his own cell now." He faced his stunned partner once again and approached him. "Do you think she bought it?" he said softly as he passed on his way to the cots at the opposite wall.

"What?" Illya blurted out, his body twisting to follow Solo's progress.

"You know, us taking pot-shots at each other." When Illya's expression didn't change, he added, "Doesn't feel very good on the receiving end, does it? And just to let you know, I gave you a signal that was like a banner and you didn't catch it.

"You know, Illya, I understand that you felt you had to go through with this whole charade again. But, God damn it, why did you have to drag it out like that? Was it because you were enjoying it even more this time?"

Kuryakin was never quite sure if he would have throttled Napoleon with his bare hands if the guard had not caught him from behind and restrained him first. It was much less satisfying to hurl MAT vulgarities at him.

By the time he back in his own cell, the fire of his anger had dissipated, leaving him emotionally weary. He sank down on the cot and began to replay the altercation with Napoleon in his mind. Never had they struck out at each other the way they did just moments earlier. In the solitude, the emotionally controlled, pragmatic Russian had a desperate thought: was this scenario something that had been building up over the years to finally burst free or had it, somehow, been orchestrated by their captor?

Napoleon sank down on his cot, also reflecting what had just transpired. Why did he feel such outrage against his partner? Could it be that he had lied to himself and his only real friend when he said the Gurnius Affair and Illya's subsequent confession hadn't affected the absolute trust he had in him? He had admitted as much to Terry while still strapped to the slant board: that the friendship had been strained, at least on his end. In the aloneness of the cell, the empathic, optimistic CEA of UNCLE had a disheartening thought: was what just happened between Illya and him, somehow, Dabree's doing or had he just, without really knowing why, irreparably damage the most emotionally-satisfying relationship he had ever had with another human being?

* * *

><p>"I want Napoleon released," Illya demanded through the bars of his cell door. "I have fulfilled my half of our bargain."<p>

"Your supreme arrogance amuses me, Mr. Kuryakin. You did not fulfill your part of our agreement."

Illya countered sternly. "I did what you asked—"

Dabree interrupted him in mid-sentence. "You ended the experiment prematurely."

"There was no need to continue it if your intent was as you said it was to be: the psychological effects of one partner torturing another. By breaking character, Napoleon knows I was not under the influence of one of your drugs. You heard us in the cell. He'll never work with me again. You've broken up the most successful partnership UNCLE's ever had."

Dabree considered. "A blow against UNCLE itself that I hadn't considered. Even better."

"And their top enforcement agent is crippled. I know Napoleon; it will be a long time before he'll trust a partner again. He'll press to work alone, making him even more vulnerable. And you'll still have me."

"To do with as I please."

"Yes, although, I won't be giving you any information about UNCLE."

"Perhaps not willingly." Dabree said with a coy smile.

"Perhaps not at all," Kuryakin replied coldly. "It isn't part of our bargain."

"And you said he might come back to try and rescue you even though he won't trust you; for old time's sake," she mused and nodded while a smile spread across her lips.

A spark of hope flashed into being where there had just been desperation; Dabree was agreeing with him: _his plan was working_. "Yes, it's one of his greatest weaknesses. All I ask is that you let me help him escape so he doesn't try to rescue me now. Then, I'll let myself be recaptured, and you have me; I'll be your guinea pig." He held a mental breath, allowing his words to reinforce his suggestion.

Dabree scrutinized him from behind the thick lenses. She didn't trust him, but knew the distrust was mutual. She tried to ascertain his sincerity. The partnership of Solo and Kuryakin was also legendary in THRUSH. The pair seemed to have almost a psychic/symbiotic connection between them. The destruction of the partnership was bound to be a psychological blow. Was Kuryakin's compensation for what he had done, his partner's freedom or was it all a ploy? The blond Russian was not the smooth-talking conniver Solo was; otherwise, she could be certain. "What assurances will you give me that you'll let yourself be retaken?"

Illya shrugged slightly. "You have more than enough guards to make sure that I do. After all, you'll want my recapture to be convincing."

"Why are you being so agreeable to this?" Dabree asked, still unconvinced. "Why would an UNCLE agent sacrifice himself so?"

"I'm trying to make the best of a situation with virtually no possibilities. I am a much better test subject for your studies. I have higher tolerances for all of THRUSH's current truth drugs and my pain tolerance is higher than most. Don't worry; I'll give you an apt and willing test subject. All I ask is that you let Napoleon go to be captured another day."

"Mr. Kuryakin, you are an enigma: a cold-blooded, heartless exterior, with a noble, sentimental core. How do you manage to live with yourself?"

Illya smiled soberly, but inside he was crowing in victory. "Vodka," he said softly. "Russian tradition."

The short, owlish woman smiled. "We'll have a drink together later when Mr. Solo has departed. I'd like to hear about some other Russian traditions." She walked away and Illya watched her until she turned the corner. There was another tradition he had embraced since joining UNCLE and he was going to exercise it: freedom—not just for Napoleon, but for himself as well. His partnership with Solo may have been damaged beyond repair, but they were each professional enough to part with civility. And, they would each continue the fight for the world's freedom from THRUSH.

The single clink of a light-weight metallic object brought Illya instantly from a half-doze to full alertness. He lay stone-still on his cot, eyes closed, while he strained to hear any other extraneous sound that might accompany the first. He was rewarded shortly with the tell-tale sound of soft footsteps eminating from the hallway outside his cell door and retreating as their owner continued on their way. Kuryakin waited through a count of twenty before slipping his feet to the floor.

Just inside the cell door, he found a small cylindrical object he immediately recognized as an UNCLE pen communicator. _Probably Napoleon's_, Illya thought as he picked it up and automatically manipulated the device to send. "Open Channel D," he said softly.

His answer was a crackling, indicative of a frequency-jamming signal. His sighed and closed up the pen. It appeared that he was not going to be able to contact a rescue party until he and Solo were out of the building. Unfortunately, while the UNCLE communicator was a wonder of miniaturization technology, it useless as a lockpick. Unless they planned to open the door for him directly, there would have to be another delivery sometime soon. He slid the communicator into his pants pocket and made his way quickly back to the cot.

"THRUSH could learn a thing or two from Sears and Roebuck," he murmurred to himself as he rolled onto the mattress. Waiting had always been one of the hardest parts of his job, and he was more than impatient to get Napoleon to safety. Then, he could prepare himself for his ultimate future, however long or short that was going to be.

The second delivery came with a soft, almost silent, ping of another metallic object hitting the floor. Illya, however, had been waiting for its arrival and nearly leaped from the cot to claim his prize. In the dark, his fingers wrapped around a large paperclip. "All right—" he murmured in satisfaction and quickly began to bend the steel into a usable shape to handle the door lock. He had the door open in minutes; the next task was to find Napoleon's cell, which was more difficult. Dabree had cleverly placed prisoner cells in different areas of the compound. Finally, on a different level entirely, he found his partner's cell.

"Napoleon!" Kuryakin called to the figure on the cot in a piercing stage whisper.

The shadow rolled over towards the door. "Who is it?"

"It's me! Illya!"

In an instant, the dark figure stood in front of the door. "Illya? What in the hell are you doing out there?"

"That's a fine way to talk to your rescuer! Give me a minute to get this door open." There was silence for a short while and then the cell door swung outward. "C'mon, let's get out of here!" The words had barely left Illya's mouth when a fist roughly grasped his shirt and pulled him inside. "Napoleon—! What are you doing?"

"You didn't answer my question."

Illya pulled away from Solo's grasp. "And you need to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. This is a rescue, a break-out, an escape, whatever you want to call it. We need to go—now."

"How did _you_ get out?" He heard the Russian sigh with exasperation.

"I crawled under the door, what else? Look, it doesn't matter how I got out. What matters is that I'm getting you out. Stop being a skeptic and do as I say."

"I can't help being just a little skeptical based on recent events."

"_Screw_ recent events!" Illya snarled. "There'll be plenty of time to deal with that when we're far away from here! Get moving or I'll knock you senseless and carry you out!"

A moment later, Solo felt a foot on his rump shoving him through the cell door opening. With curiosity over-riding his earlier hesitation, Napoleon followed Kuryakin through the maze of hallways. Incredibly, in their travels, they met with only one guard, which Illya dispatched with his usual efficiency. The rifle the guard was carrying, however, was unloaded and the only other weapon on the body was a switchblade.

Illya slipped the knife into his trousers pocket and murmured to the unconscious guard, "Go back to your gang, _malchik,_ you'll live longer." He looked up at Solo. "Let's go."

The pair pushed open a heavy door and suddenly found themselves in bright daylight. "_Voila_," Kuryakin said under his breath.

Napoleon caught his partner's arm, halting him. "Illya, this is utterly ridiculous! One guard? This has got to be a set-up or a trap."

Kuryakin turned around and the blue eyes flashed in anger. "What are you insinuating, Napoleon? That I'm part of some diabolical plot against you?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pen communicator. "Here. Call for help."

As Solo reached for the pen, Illya tightened his grip on it and added. "And just for the record, I'm one-quarter _tsigani, _not a half-breed and while it's true, I'm a bastard in the technical sense of the word, I'd like to point out, that so are you. _The pot calling the kettle black_, I believe the saying goes. And—if you _ever_ refer to my mother again as a Gypsy whore, I will see that you have one thing in common with the _castrati_ in Vienna Boys Choir." He released the pen into Napoleon's custody. "Go ahead, call them. They should be waiting to hear from us if Gretchen did what I asked before I was captured." He turned away from the dark-haired agent and began to walk into the brush.

Napoleon stared at the communicator in confusion for a moment before it struck him that just outside the door to Dabree's complex was not the best place to call from. He ran to catch up with Illya.

"How did you manage to get ahold of my communicator? Did you make some kind of deal with Dabree?"

Kuryakin kept walking. "Need to know and you don't. Are you going to call for help or aren't you?"

Napoleon opened the pen. "You know, I ought to throttle you for being obstinate. Open Channel D."

While they waited for a reply, Illya stood silent. _I sincerely hope you have the opportunity to that_, he thought dourly.

Waverly's voice was its usual calm, but Solo was certain he heard a sense of relief from The Old Man. They were quickly transferred to the Boston Headquarters where the Head of Operations told them they would have a helicopter ready to pick them up in a half-hour. They were to keep the communicator on a homing signal and head due east until they had a visual on them. "By the way," Napoleon added, "where are we?"

"Martha's Vineyard," was the answer. Napoleon chuckled softly as he closed off communication and set the pen to the homing signal. "I'll be damned." He looked up to see Illya's quizzical expression. "The Kennedys have a compound here. Remember when we were involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis back in '62, before we were partnered (The Cuban Missiles Affair to be written, I hope.)? Well, I got a chance to get to know Bobby more than a little. He's campaigning for President now."

"Let's hope you will have the opportunity to vote for him.(This phrase has a double meaning, for Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in 1968 before he ever had the chance to be nominated. It was a very personal blow to Robert Vaughn who, in real life, was a friend of the Kennedys.) We need to keep moving."

Forty-five minutes later, they heard a helicopter overhead and touch down about a hundred years in front of them. A young, black-suited man approached them, gun in hand. Both Illya and Napoleon paused and spread their hands to show they were not armed.

"I'm Brian Witherspoon, Section 2, Boston Headquarters," the young man said in greeting. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, and very happy to see you," Napoleon said.

"We can take off as soon as you're on board."

"Excellent," Illya said and held out his hand. "I am going to need your weapon, Mr. Witherspoon."

Napoleon looked at his partner, puzzled. "What's going on, Illya?"

"This is the part where you get on the helicopter and I take care of some unfinished business." He turned to Brian. "You wouldn't by chance have any incendiaries on the helicopter, would you?"

"You're not thinking of going back there, are you?" Solo demanded.

"There are a fair number of THURSH guards approaching us right now, and I guarantee that their rifles are not unloaded."

"How do you know that?"

"I know. That's all that matters."

"So you did make a deal with Dabree. What was it? You in exchange for me? You have no right—"

"I have every right to do what I think is best to ensure the success of the mission," the Russian interrupted bluntly.

"This wasn't a mission."

Illya caught the two square incendiaries and stuffed them in his shirt. "It became one as soon as I got captured and saw the brain-kill machine Dabree had recreated."

"I get it now. You're pissed that I gave away your location."

"No, Napoleon, I'm not. But I am annoyed that you allowed your guard to go lax. If you hadn't been so smugly pleased with yourself to have two redheads vying for your attention you might have seen through Flostone's disguise and we wouldn't be where we are now.

"But, even that doesn't matter anymore because I'm about to renege on my deal with Dabree. I suspect she already has other plans as well. Give me your communicator and about thirty minutes. I'll call you when I'm ready."

"I'm not going to let you do this, Illya."

Kuryakin raised the Special he obtained from Agent Witherspoon. "And you don't have a choice." He looked up at the other agent. "Mr. Witherspoon, Mr. Solo is feeling the after-effects of being tortured. His mental capacity has become diminished and he is not able to give orders. As Number Two, Section Two in New York, I am _ordering_ you to take Mr. Solo on board the helicopter so he can begin treatment for his injuries." He turned his attention back to Napoleon. "Now, will you get on the helicopter like a good little UNCLE agent and let me finish what I started?"

"You better hope those guards put a bullet through your skull, because if you survive this, I'll have you busted down to Section Eight in the most anti-Communist outpost UNCLE has."

"Well, that's certainly an incentive. I'll see you later." Kuryakin turned from the pair and began to run back in the direction of Dabree's complex.

Solo watched the receding figure as a sense of dread clutched at his insides. Why had he said that? Perhaps, he was suffering from diminished mental capacity. He looked up as Agent Witherspoon touched his arm. "I shouldn't have let him do this alone," he said, shaking his head sullenly.

"If I may say so, Mr. Solo, I don't think there was any way you could have stopped him."

* * *

><p>Illya threaded his way back across the wooded terrain leading to Dabree's complex, his senses alert for evidence of THRUSH guards lying in wait. The first one made himself known when the tree he was leaning against suddenly ejected a large chunk of wood and bark. A second shot was all he needed to pinpoint the gunman's location. He stepped out from behind the tree. "One down," he said to himself and pressed onward.<p>

In all, there had been five THRUSH gunmen. Kuryakin came face-to-face with number five when the complex was a little over two hundred yards away. As they stood, each holding their weapons on the other, Illya broke the silence. "We seem to be at an impasse. However, if you're interested in staying alive, you'll lower you weapon."

The guard didn't move. "She was sure you wouldn't come back. We were sent to kill you and Solo."

"I didn't come back to offer my services as an experimental test subject. That mind-kill machine, as well as this building, is going to be a pile of rubble when I'm finished. Now, whether you're a part of that pile is strictly up to you. You give me safe passage to the lab and I might be able to offer you a chance at a nobler life style. That chance begins with you handing over the gun."

The THRUSH considered his options for mere moments, and lowered his rifle. Illya pulled it from the THRUSH's hand and unloaded the ammunition. "Here," he said as he tossed it back. "Now, you can take me inside." Kuryakin stowed the UNCLE Special in his shirt and preceded the guard back into the building.

Napoleon could not remember when time had moved as slowly as it was now; not even when he was on the slant board wired for agony, did the minutes trudge by like this. Seeming like and an hour had surely passed, he was astonished to see by Agent Witherspoon's watch that it was only ten minutes.

"We should be able to see the fire from the incendiaries even at this distance," Witherspoon said. "They're a new model and make a rather impressive display."

Solo looked over at the other agent. "You and Illya would certainly get along well. There's nothing he likes better than an impressive display." Silently, he was thinking about the impressive display the Russian would make when he and The Old Man gave Illya the dressing-down this little piece of mutiny had bought him. Then he and his, perhaps, soon-to-be-ex-partner, would settle the other matter.

* * *

><p>Kuryakin expected to find Dabree in her lab, so when the small, wiry-haired doctor greeted him with a pleasant greeting and a gun in her hand, he was not surprised.<p>

"My guards were more adept in bringing you back alive than I thought," she said. "I was prepared to accept that they had killed you and Mr. Solo."

"The only thing four of your guards were adept at was dying. Number five, here, has considered the error of his ways and wishes to tender his resignation." Illya pulled the gun from his shirt. "I hope you will forgive me, but I don't plan to stay long; just long enough to set these devices—" He pulled an incendiary bomb out of his shirt. "—and shut down your little operation here. You may want to make a hasty retreat; they have a very short fuse."

"You're forgetting that I'm holding a gun on you, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya moved his thumb across the square bomb casing and it began to emit a loud beeping. "This is timed to go off in five minutes. It can't be stopped. That is courtesy of my cold-blooded and ruthless exterior. I'm giving you the opportunity to save yourself and your assistant, Miss Flostone, because I'm now tapping into my sentimental, noble core."

Dabree lowered the gun with a scowl. "May you rot in hell, you and Napoleon Solo."

Illya smiled mockingly. "It just so happens that I don't believe in a hell, but should I be wrong, I'll look forward to seeing you there as well. You have four minutes." He set the square bomb on the table underneath the brain-kill machine aperture. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a helicopter to catch." He tossed the second bomb behind a bank of computers and ran for the door, with the THRUSH guard not far behind. The incendiary bombs roared as two fireballs engulfed Dabree's complex. The shockwave threw both Kuryakin and the THRUSH forward onto their knees.

In the midst of escaping the brunt of the blast, Illya failed to realize that their trajectory had taken them to the spot where he had dispatched THRUSH guard number four earlier. Number Five found the gun nearby and quickly pocketed it before his UNCLE captor noticed. The pair continued onward towards a destination the THRUSH determined they would never reach.

Kuryakin heard the safety of fifth THRUSH's gun click and stopped walking. "You're making a mistake," he said evenly as he looked over his shoulder.

"Maybe, but you're a prize that will get me out of this gun fodder uniform and into a position more to my liking."

"Be careful what you wish for," Illya said, turning slowly.

"Look, I don't have anything against you personally," the THRUSH explained.

"I know, it's strictly business."

"You understand."

"All too well. We do what we must for our cause."

"Exactly."

"Then, you'll understand when I tell you that now I must kill you so not to become your means for advancement. Nothing personal, you understand. You can, however, drop the gun and I'll overlook this little _faux pas_ of yours."

The THURSH moved to aim his pistol; Illya drew his Special and fired, felling the man where he stood .While it was hazardous to approach a downed adversary uncertain of his status, it was standard procedure for an UNCLE agent, whenever possible, to confirm a kill or take the living into custody. It was foolhardy to turn ones back on an armed enemy without knowing if that enemy might be able shoot back.

Illya approached cautiously, gun at the ready, towards the silent, unmoving THRUSH agent. The blast came from the THRUSH's gun before Illya even saw the man fire on him. He caught his breath and stumbled backward a step when the hot metal tore into his lower chest, staring dumbfounded as if the blast had come from thin air. The gun slipped from his hand as his balance wavered. He fell backwards, landing hard on his back, and looking dazedly up at the sky.

The THRUSH got to his feet, holding his wounded shoulder and stood over the UNCLE agent, noting the widening crimson stain surrounding the neat 9mm hole on the left side of the chest. "Die slowly, UNCLE man and die alone—" He picked up the gun Illya had dropped and walked away, confident that the blond agent was not a threat. A half-minute later, a six-inch knife blade imbedded itself into his back, the switchblade that the determined Russian had pulled from his pocket and thrown from a torturously acquired stance. Illya crawled to the dead THRUSH agent to retrieve his gun. "Not today," he whispered fiercely to the body. To assure himself the truth of his own words, he struggled to his feet to walk back in the direction of the helicopter. He managed a weaving course of twenty yards before his knees gave way. He collapsed, landing on his wounded side, and the sun went black.

* * *

><p>The sound of Napoleon's UNCLE communicator called him back from the dark senselessness. He lifted his head, greeted by a wave of vertigo that turned his stomach. It was only by taking deep breaths, he was able to keep from retching, but with each, came searing pain across his chest that actually accentuated the feeling of breathlessness. <em>This is not good<em>—he thought. Perhaps the dead THRUSH had been right in his assessment.

With great effort, he fished the warbling pen from his pocket and set the device to emit the homing signal. He had no strength for more. Then, he thought he heard someone call his name: above the pain, above his struggle to catch his breath and beyond the gnawing realization that he might dying. "I'm here," he whispered hoarsely. _I'm here, Napoleon—please, find me—find me before—_ "Hurry—"

He sensed first, then heard, the approach of footsteps from the direction of his feet. Instinct lifted his head and shoulder, the gun raised in his right hand. Napoleon's voice calling his name stayed the instinct to fire. With a painful sigh, his arm dropped to his side and his head bowed. In the next moment, he felt his partner's hand grasp his shoulder.

"Illya, what's wrong? Are you hit?" Napoleon's voice was thick with anxiety. "Let me see—"

"There were five," Illya whispered hoarsely. _Maybe if he kept talking—_

"Yeah, we saw them, you got'em all. And we saw the flames from the compound. You did it. You destroyed Dabree's machine." Napoleon didn't want to think about the worst.

"Stupid—stupid—" the Russian mumbled. "Amateurish—walked right into it—" Kuryakin gasped a moan and his face contorted from pain he could no longer conceal. The blond head began to droop again.

Napoleon tightened his grasp. "Stay with me, Illya—" He tried to roll his friend onto his back to see the wound, but Kuryakin protested weakly. "Let me see," he insisted softly. He did not need to move his partner much to see his worst fear confirmed. "_God_—"

Napoleon looked up at the sound of footsteps running towards them. "Brian! How fast can you get the helicopter over here?"

The other UNCLE agent took in the urgency in a glance. "About two minutes."

"Get'em out here as quick as you can—" Solo leaned over his partner. "Stay with me, partner. We still have some things to resolve between us—" He slid his arm behind the blond Russian's shoulders to jostle him back from the overwhelming desire to let go of consciousness. "Hey, don't you give up on me—You've got to hang on; the copter's on its way."

Napoleon felt a fist wrap itself around the fabric of his shirt. When he looked into Kuryakin's face, the dull eyes that looked back at him had large, dilated pupils giving the bloodless complexion an unnervingly charnel appearance. Napoleon could hear the labored breathing. The pale lips moved silently.

"Don't try to talk. We're going to get you to a hospital. Just hang on, stay with me, Illya. Stay with me."

With an effort that took all of his strength, Kuryakin pulled air into the single lung that was still functioning. Two words came out as coughing groans. "_You—win_—" Then he visibly relaxed into his partner's arm, and his eyes lost their remaining focus as unconsciousness claimed him.

Solo was dumbfounded. "I—what—? Illya—!" He grasped the lower jaw. "Oh, no you don't!" His fingers went for the carotid artery at the base of the jawline to feel for a pulse. "You don't finish an argument like that and then _die_ on me, you insolent Russian bastard!" He gasped a hard sigh of relief to feel a weak, rapid pulse under his fingers. "For God's Sake, Illya, don't leave me here to fight these THRUSH sons-of-bitches alone —!" he implored. Only when he began to lower his friend's body to the ground, did he notice that his shirt was still in Illya's clenched fist. He pulled it gently from the fabric and his own fingers automatically sought his partner's pulse point below the thumb.

"Napoleon," a voice above him said loudly. He looked up. Agent Witherspoon was by his shoulder. "The chopper's here."

Napoleon then realized that their clothing was flapping around their bodies from the rotors. He looked down at his friend. "C'mon, Illya, the bus is here." Something in the facial cast was off and he leaned over. He looked up. "You got a doctor on board?" He shouted urgently above the sound of the chopper.

"Medics. What is it, Napoleon?"

"Have one of them get over here, quick—he stopped breathing—" Solo bent over his partner once again and pinched closed the nose. "Listen, Kuryakin, you're not going to pull off this dying shit while I've got anything to say about it!" He took a deep breath, clamped his mouth over the cyanic lips and blew, satisfied to hear air move and feel the chest rise slightly. "I'm your senior agent by two years—" Another breath. "—and you don't have my permission to die yet!" Another breath. "C'mon, you stubborn _Cossack,_ you're not going to let this beat you!" Another breath. "Illya," he whispered, "I can't do this without you by my side— _zadushevney _—"

Napoleon was light-headed from deep breathing and his own pep-talk by the time the medics from the chopper relieved him and began to intubate Kuryakin. When they had finally gotten the fallen Russian onto the 'copter, Solo insisted on being the one in charge of the Ambu-bag, to continue giving Illya life-sustaining mechanical breathing support. The chopper took off, already in radio contact with the nearest major hospital that would be able to accommodate them: Rhode Island Hospital, teaching hospital of Brown University.

* * *

><p>Napoleon pushed the button on the coffee machine in the hospital waiting room and watched as his fourth cup filled with strong, dark liquid. The coffee wasn't helping the knots in his stomach, but he needed something to keep his hands occupied. Illya had been in surgery for nearly four hours, with no word about his condition.<p>

He stood, staring into the shiny glass of the coffee machine, berating himself for the umpteenth time over how he had handled the situation in Dabree's complex. That building was now a pile of rubble, but it had been vacated before the agents from Boston infiltrated it. Gone with Dabree and Flostone, was the new brain-kill machine.

He was about to return to his place on the less-than-comfortable couch when he caught movement out of his peripheral vision. He turned quickly, thinking it was the surgeon with news. Instead, he saw a vaguely familiar female face, lined with worry.

"Mr. Solo?" the voice ventured as it mirrored the concern in the face.

"Yes. Please call me Napoleon," Solo answered, and then remembered where he had seen the beautiful brunette. "Dr. Moore, I presume?"

"Gretchen," she answered, a bit relieved, but the timbre was still shaky. "Agents from your organization told me that Illya was brought here. Do they know if he's going to be all right?"

Napoleon shook his head. "He's still in surgery. I'm going on the assumption that no news is good news."

"Is it working? Your assumption, I mean."

Napoleon stared down into his cup. "No, not really. I'm afraid I can't delude myself like I used to."

"What happened?"

"Shot in the line of duty. That's about all I can really say. I'm sure you know, having worked with him before, that much of what we do is classified or secret."

"I got that impression. He hardly ever said anything about his work or what he does, even when we first met and were working together."

A surgical-gowned nurse caught their attention. "Mr. Solo?"

Solo dumped his half-full cup into the trashcan and walked across the waiting room. "What's the verdict?" he said softly.

"Mr. Kuryakin came through the surgery well, but he lost a lot of blood," the nurse explained. "The surgeon would like to give you the details if you want to hear them."

"Yes, I would. And I'd like to be in the room with him." Napoleon suddenly felt uncomfortable having to explain. "We're partners, you see, and, well, it's something partners need to do."

The nurse smiled in understanding. "Yes, I know. My brother is a police officer." She indicated Gretchen with her chin. "Is she family?"

"Uh, yes," Napoleon said quickly. "His sister. She's the only family he has."

"Then, if you'll both follow me—"

Napoleon took Gretchen by the hand and the pair followed the nurse to the intensive care section of the hospital. They entered the first room on the right and saw the object of their concern surrounded by machinery, wires and tubing. The occupant of the bed was pale and small-looking, with a respirator tube still in his throat, and IV needles in both forearms.

"We're going to keep him heavily sedated for about twenty-four hours," the doctor explained. "I want to give our repairs a chance to begin healing. It was a nasty wound; caught the stomach, nicked the spleen, and after tearing a hole in the diaphragm, went into the left lung. I'm most concerned about the spleen and the diaphragm."

"We'll watch over him," Napoleon said softly.

The doctor went to the door and motioned for Solo to come along. Once outside, he spoke very softly. "What can you tell me about the man I just operated on? His body is ravaged like a battlefield. He has puncture marks from countless needle sticks. Who is this man?"

Napoleon reached into his pocket and brought out a card with a phone number on it. "If you would call this number, doctor, and speak to my boss, Mr. Waverly, I believe he will answer all your questions to your satisfaction."

"I believe that, Mr. Solo, just as I believe that if I asked you to remove your shirt, I would find a battlefield not unlike his."

"You would be right," Napoleon said with a smile.

"I don't believe I will need to talk to your Mr. Waverly."

"Then all I ask is that you keep what you've seen a secret."

The doctor nodded. "I can do that, Mr. Solo. Go tend to your friend."

"Thank you, doctor." Napoleon went back inside the room to find Gretchen seated by Illya's bedside, holding his hand.

"He looks so cold, but his hand's warm," she said, her voice quivering.

"It's a contradiction, isn't it?" Napoleon agreed as he took the chair on the other side of the bed. As if guided by instinct, his hand slipped around his partner's wrist, the index and the middle fingers resting lightly on the pulse point. The exercise was usually comforting for him, for it reassured him that the person closest to him in the world was alive and would soon return to his side once more. This time, however, he felt little comfort. Even as he sat, saturated in worry, anger simmered underneath.

He had a nagging desire to drag this man out of the bed and demand that they settle their differences in a good old-fashioned bare-knuckles brawl. He felt a morbid satisfaction at the mental image of Kuryakin, face bloodied, broken-nosed, jaw smashed. His immersion was so deep he did not hear Gretchen say his name until she had repeated it twice.

He looked up. "Sorry," he apologized. "Lost in thought."

"I understand." She looked at him with a sad smile. "You know, Illya never talked about you."

The dark eyebrows raised. "Really? Well, I guess that's not too surprising. He never mentioned you to me, either."

"I know. I think he was concerned that you would try to steal me away. Do you do that kind of thing, Napoleon?"

"Well, we both try to—I mean, it's kind of a game we play, you know, one-upping each other. All I can think is that you're special to him."

"Do UNCLE agents ever get married?"

"It's not encouraged, as a matter of fact, it's pretty much discouraged. We don't make very good husbands; there's too much we can't talk about. Too much a wife wouldn't want to know anyway."

"He always became annoyed when I asked him about his work. I guess I understand why a little more now. He's such a complex man. When we went diving, he was like a little boy discovering something for the first time and you know what that was? It was that he could do something for no other reason than it was fun. And then on the reverse side, when those men came to take him, he was more concerned about my safety than his own. And somewhere in the middle, he's gentle and passionate."

"And you love him, don't you?"

A tear rolled down her beautiful face. "I guess I must or I'd listen to my friends' advice to find someone else." She looked across the bed at the handsome man grasping the wrist of the bed's occupant. "You love him, too."

"It shows, huh?"

Gretchen smiled. "Yes, it does."

Napoleon sighed heavily and turned his gaze to the still features of his partner. He didn't deny for a moment that this person was dearer to him than anyone else in the world. What bothered him was that right now, he felt a genuine animosity towards Illya, and he didn't know why.

* * *

><p>Kuryakin had been floating in the sea drugged of semi-wakefulness for so long that he was not completely aware of his own return to consciousness until he heard the familiar voice speak to him.<p>

"Well, finally; it's about time you woke up."

This was not Napoleon's usual greeting in situations like this. The way he felt, Illya was not sure he wanted to engage this hostile alterative of his partner. The visual image that eventually solidified into a three-dimensional person was as bad as the voice that accompanied it: disheveled, gaunt and grimly red-eyed. "You look terrible," the Russian observed with a gravelly voice.

"You spend three days sleeping in a chair, then tell me about how I look. Besides, you don't look so good yourself."

Kuryakin closed his eyes against a heavy ache across his left lower ribs. "No, I suppose not," he murmured. He decided it was best to keep things as neutral as possible.

"How do you feel?"

"I've felt better." There was a pause as Solo's initial comment sank in. "Three days, huh?"

"You came out of the sedation and thought you were on a mission. Survival mode and all that. Gave one of the orderlies a black eye. They thought it best all-around to keep you sedated for a while longer."

"In that case, I wouldn't have expected you to stay here for three days."

The haggard features frowned and the response was as harsh as his appearance. "What kind of a stupid-ass remark is _that_? Are you still delirious? Where in hell did you _expect_ I would be? "

_So much for him cooling off_, Illya concluded, but he felt far from ready to take on Napoleon's fury. "Sorry," he conceded.

The apology was ill-received. "No, you answer my question. After all these years of sitting by each other's bedsides like this, just _where_ did you think I would be instead?"

"It was a poor choice of words. I apologize. I'm not exactly at my best right now, as you can see."

"Well, while we're on the subject of words, maybe you could tell me what was that 'you win' bullshit was about."

"I don't follow." He remembered only a portion of what transpired after Napoleon found him.

"You don't back down from an argument when you think you're right." The answer came to him even as he was speaking. "But you might if you thought you weren't going to make it. That's it, isn't it? You thought you were going to die.

"And you wanted to tie up one last loose end." The frown returned. "Well, just for the record, Illya, in the future, _don't_ do me any favors. I detest winning arguments by default."

Illya stared at him, silent. _If there is a future_, he thought. The pain was becoming more than he wanted to handle at this point, and Solo was showing no sign of backing off. "Napoleon, I think you should go back to your hotel, get a shower, get something to eat and take a nice, long nap."

Solo misinterpreted the well-meaning suggestion. "You're telling me to leave?" he said, his voice responding as if he'd been challenged. "So much for a little gratitude from one partner to another."

In an effort that nearly took his breath away, Illya raised himself up onto his elbows. "I'm asking you to go and do what you need to do to get out of this disagreeable mood you're in. Get laid for all I care. I can't abide you like this." He sank back down onto the pillows, spent and in real pain. "Please, leave, Napoleon. I hurt and I want to sleep."

"Very well, have it your way," the dark-haired agent replied curtly, then turned and strode to the door.

"Napoleon, I do appreciate what you did," Illya called after him, but Solo gave no indication that he heard. Illya closed his eyes and his hand instinctively went to cover his wound. After three days, he shouldn't feel this bad, no matter the amount of damage he had incurred.

* * *

><p>He wasn't sure if he had dozed off, but suddenly Gretchen occupied the chair Solo had vacated, holding his hand. "Illya, thank God you're awake. We were so worried about you. Napoleon didn't leave your side the whole time." She looked in the direction of the bathroom. "Where is he?"<p>

Illya grasped her hand tightly to pull her attention back to him. "Gretchen," he half-groaned, "I need you to find a doctor or a nurse."

She caught the urgency through the pain in his voice at the same time she saw the unhealthy pallor of his face. "Illya?"

"Pain—is wrong—hemorrhaging—I can feel—" He panted heavily. "Get—the doctor—hurry—" he finished in a whisper.

He felt the hand pull away from his and heard the retreating footsteps rush to the door. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as a cold, clammy chill crept across his limbs. He had a fleeting twinge of remorse that he had sent Napoleon away too soon and in too sour a mood, but then his mind was bombarded by a jumble of non-corporeal voices and later, he was moving rapidly towards an unknown destination as his senses went dark once again.

Kuryakin awoke to the sound of his name coaxing him to open his eyes. He recognized the mental muzziness associated with narcotic painkillers and wished the person talking would leave him alone so he could sink back down into oblivion. No such luck, for the hand associated with the voice grasped his firmly, and another touched the side of his face.

He knew both the voice and the touch, so the face that finally coalesced in his field of vision was a welcome sight. "What was it?" he murmured with effort.

"Ruptured spleen," Gretchen replied softly. "It wasn't entirely unexpected. You were so heavily transfused from before that it just couldn't take the strain of the initial injury."

She was not sniveling all over him with concern and for that he was grateful. He'd known too many like that and could not tolerate their lack of control. "How long?" he whispered.

"About eighteen hours. It was a long surgery and you almost bled out again. They really want you to stay quiet and rest for a few days." Gretchen saw the blue eyes cast about the room and knew what he was looking for. "He's not here," she said, and the eyes centered back on her. "He got a call from your boss. Mr. Waverly?" Illya's chin lifted minutely in affirmation. "He had to be back in New York this morning. Something about a mission. But he was here last night when they brought you back from surgery. He said you'd understand."

The Russian nodded once again. At least, there weren't going to be anymore harsh words between Napoleon and him for a while. Curiosity satisfied, he realized he was struggling once more to keep his eyes open.

Gretchen noticed and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm going to let you sleep for a while. I have some things to take care of with the beach study and I'll be back later."

"You don't have to babysit me."

"I know. Perhaps, I just want to for a little while, okay?" She didn't wait for an answer, but Kuryakin was not in a position to give one, for the pain medication overwhelmed his ability to stay conscious and he was asleep before she was at the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

Illya Kuryakin was released from the hospital after two difficult weeks of defying doctors' orders and being disagreeable with the nurses. During those two weeks, Illya never mentioned Solo's name or showed even a passing interest in his partner's activities. A trained observer of behavior, animal and otherwise, Gretchen knew something had changed in the complex man she sat beside every day. On the day of his release, she picked him up from the hospital lobby and drove him to the hotel where she had been staying to rest before she drove him back to New York City.

Curious, Gretchen went so far in her investigation to call Solo at the number he gave her for emergencies, but when she finally reached him, his response was in line with the blond Russian's: it was basically none of her business and it would be addressed when Illya was well enough to return to New York.

"Are you sure it's all right for me to stay with you for a little while?" she asked from the driver's side on the trip to New York.

"I said it was, didn't I?" he answered bluntly.

"If I can," he answered with a distinct noncommittal tone in his voice.

"You're not going to, are you?" she replied accusingly.

"I may be going out of the country for a while."

She drove on for a while then against her better judgment, said, "Look, I know something happened between you and Napoleon—" He was about to interrupt her but she cut him off. "—No, you let me say what I have to say. I saw him in that hospital room, sitting beside you, for three days. What's more, I saw the look in his eyes when they brought you down from surgery both times. I may not know your feelings towards him, but I sure as hell know his for you.

"Whatever has come between you, you'd better do everything you can to resolve it, or you'll break his heart."

Illya stared out the windshield of the car. "Nonsense. You make it sound like we've had a lovers' quarrel. Napoleon and I are _not_ lovers."

"I didn't say you were. But what the two of you do share, is nothing like physical love. You seem to be more like soul mates or something. A part of the other."

This time Kuryakin did look at her. "The Russian word is _zadushevny_. It means 'behind the soul'. How do you know this?"

"I observe animal behavior."

Illya snorted a humorless laugh and faced the front again.

"I'll have you know, I gave Napoleon the same advice the last time I talked to him."

"And?"

Gretchen gripped the steering wheel and drew a deep breath. "I think you're a couple of complete idiots and you deserve each other."

"He told you to mind your own business. And I agree with him. Napoleon will always be _zadushevny_ to me. On the other hand, I'm not sure we will be able to work together again. A lot of unpleasantness has passed between us, things that have touched us at the deepest levels."

Gretchen looked at him sympathetically. "Will you, at least, try?"

Illya sighed as deeply as his healing chest would allow. "I never said I wouldn't." He leaned forward and turned on the radio, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes effectively ending the conversation. And there was no more conversation for the remaining drive to New York.

**End of Part 2**


	3. You Always Hurt the One You Love

**We Are What We Live**

**Part 3**

"**You Always Hurt the One You Love"**

**By WendieZ and LaH Carabele**

**Prologue**

Illya Kuryakin turned the key in the deadbolt of his apartment door, slid his hand around the jamb to flip the switch to the alarm, and pushed the door open, his extended arm inviting Gretchen to precede him. "Be it ever so humble," he said.

The shapely brunette walked inside and scanned the room. "This is definitely a single man's apartment," she commented. She dropped her purse on the couch and Kuryakin's rucksack on the floor.

Illya laid the bags of Chinese carry-out on the kitchen table and picked up the duffel to transfer it to the bedroom. "It is what it is," he countered matter-of-factly. "I could have carried this up the stairs, you know."

"You're on the mend. What did the doctor say? No heavy lifting for at least several more weeks."

"He's not familiar with UNCLE agents and the bag isn't heavy."

Gretchen stood at the bedroom doorway. "Right," she agreed. "I carried it to humiliate you." She took in the bedroom furnishings in a glance. "You don't bring many ladies home, do you?"

Illya turned to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have a single bed."

"I don't need any more than that."

"Never mind." Gretchen turned back towards the living area.

Illya followed her. "Would you rather have a hotel room?"

This time she turned to face him. "No, this is fine. A little Spartan, but it's okay."

"It serves me well. I'm an infrequent occupant as it is."

The pretty, dark-haired marine biologist sighed apologetically. "I'm sorry, Illya, I didn't mean to judge. I guess this is a lot compared to what you would have in the Soviet Union."

A slight smile touched the Russian's lips. "Positively bourgeois."

Gretchen went to him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "I was just wondering where we were both going to sleep tonight."

He nodded. "I see. Well, I really don't recall us needing very much sleeping space before. But if you are truly concerned, you many have the bed and I'll take the couch."

Her mouth opened in surprise. "That seems a long way to go for a kiss in the middle of the night."

"I'm afraid a kiss is about all I can manage right now. No heavy lifting, remember?" He was smirking mischievously.

She smiled. "A kiss will do, Mr. Kuryakin," she said as she leaned into him.

He met her lips half-way, and suddenly they were tightly pressed against each other, hungrily seeking the other's tongue. Finally, it was Illya who pulled back. "We have to stop," he said a little breathlessly.

Gretchen looked at him, puzzled. "You don't have to stop on my account. You're ready to jump my bones, and, hey, I approve. We can accommodate your injury."

He pulled away from her and went to the kitchen to empty the bags of Chinese food. "This food is going to get cold if we don't eat it soon." He looked up when she spoke his name.

"The vacation's over, isn't it?" Gretchen said softly. "Back to business as usual."

His gaze dropped back to the table. "No, not completely," he said almost apologetically. "Well, at least, not until tomorrow when I have to report to Mr. Waverly and then to Medical."

"Why did you pull away from me just now?"

"May I ask a question before I answer?"

"Yes."

"What did you hope to gain by driving me back to New York?"

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." He looked up once more. "Gretchen, at what point must I blatantly try to drive you away?"

Now it was her turn to be annoyed by the repetitious restating of reality. "Why I drove you back here is my concern, but if it bothers you that much, I can go to a hotel in the morning."

"You don't have to do that." He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. "But, please keep it foremost in your mind that as much as I may care for you, and enjoy your company, there can never be any more than what we have now."

"So you keep impressing upon me. And for your information, I've had time to think about that, and it's okay. I'm a big girl, Illya."

"And very capable, I know. But I also know that people tend to cling most strongly to that which they know they cannot have."

Gretchen saw a flicker of regret in his eyes and decided that a change of subject was in order. "Would you like me take care of the food? You look tired; maybe you should rest for a bit."

Kuryakin nodded. "You're also very perceptive. I believe I will sit down for a little while, thank you."

Gretchen nodded and went to the kitchen area, while Illya sank wearily onto the couch. She found plates in the cupboard, utensils in the drawer, and clean cups in the drain board. The teakettle was empty so she filled it and set it on the stove to boil. After the tea had brewed, she spooned some of each Chinese entrée onto the plates with a generous helping of rice. "Do you want to eat at the table or over there?" she called to the man slouched on the couch, head resting on the back, eyes closed. He did not answer, so she went over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Illya?" she said and shook gently.

The result was akin to the springing of a bear trap. In one swift sequence of motions, the Russian vacated the couch, drew his Special from its holster and pushed Gretchen halfway across the room, his left hand encircling her throat, and the barrel of the gun pressed against her temple. A pair of piercing blue eyes regarded her with suspicion. She was too shocked and frightened to even scream. A moment later, he came fully awake. She heard him inhale sharply, then quickly he lowered the gun and pushed away from her. "How many times have I told you not to touch me like that when I'm asleep!" he rebuked her angrily as he replaced his gun.

Gretchen could only stare back at him, her hands at her throat, body trembling. The alarm in her face chilled his anger and he sighed heavily. "Gretchen, I'm sorry."

She found her voice. "Why did you do that?" she stammered.

"Because, it's how I'm trained to react. It's why I keep telling you that to wake me you must say my name and nothing more."

"You said I would never have cause to be afraid of you."

"It appears that I was mistaken. Again, I'm sorry."

Gretchen continued to hug herself. "Where's your bathroom?"

He pointed to a closed door beside the bedroom door. A moment later, she was gone, slamming the door behind her. From inside, he could hear the muffled sounds of her retching. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and bemoaned, "Why do these kinds of things never happen to you, Napoleon?"

* * *

><p><strong>Act I: "I'm going to work for UNCLE!"<strong>

Napoleon Solo twisted the coat hook in the small dressing room of Del Floria's tailor shop and pushed the heavy door inward. Counter-balanced, the door opened easily into the reception room of UNCLE Headquarters, New York. An olive-skinned, black-haired Oriental beauty with deep brown almond-shaped eyes smiled at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo. How was Greece?"

"I'd love to tell you, Wanda, had I been west enough (Solo was on the remote island of Irbos. "The Man from THRUSH Affair" written by Robert Holt.) to actually be in Greece. But thanks for asking." He leaned forward to allow Wanda to pin his badge onto his lapel.

"Mr. Kuryakin's back," the pretty receptionist said, a little surprised when Napoleon quickly straightened his posture.

"Oh, he is, is he?" the handsome dark-haired agent said casually to defuse what his body language had just given up.

"Yes," Wanda continued, still curious. "He came in a little over a half-hour ago with a woman named Dr. Moore. A friend of his perhaps?"

Napoleon could not miss the receptionist's competitive antipathy as she pronounced the word "friend". A considerable number of the female staff were head-over-heels in lust for the blond Russian, and outside competition was most unwelcome. For his part, Illya showed little interest in any of them, which only added to the attraction.

Napoleon smiled. "Definitely a friend, Wanda. Did Illya mention where he and Dr. Moore were headed?"

"I know Mr. Waverly was expecting them sometime this morning."

"I'll definitely have to catch up with them, then. Thanks." He strode through the steel door and headed towards the elevator to Waverly's office. He stopped in front of Lisa Rogers' desk, situated in an alcove blocking the short hallway to the office door of Number One, Section One. "Have Illya and Dr. Moore come to see Mr. Waverly yet?"

The sultry brunette flashed her pale green eyes up at Napoleon. "They just arrived as a matter of fact. Why don't you go in?"

"Thank you, Miss Rogers. I think I will." He smiled, as he resettled his jacket onto his shoulders and straightened his tie. Then he turned to pass through the steel door that led to Mr. Waverly's office.

The occupants looked over as he entered. "Join us Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said, rising. In response, Illya stood as well.

"I heard that Illya was back in town and brought Dr. Moore with him."

"Quite, Mr. Solo. Based on your report that she was instrumental in your rescue from Dr. Dabree, I felt it only proper to thank her personally." The older man smiled. "So I took the liberty of inviting her to Headquarters when she drove Mr. Kuryakin back here to New York."

Napoleon noticed an exchange of glances between his partner and Gretchen and surmised that the Old Man's invitation was news as well to the blond agent. Characteristically, Illya had no comment, but merely concealed any surprise he may have had behind a bland expression. Solo was sure, however, that Illya was more than merely surprised; he could see the Russian's fingertips rubbing together as they often did when a situation was uncomfortable or he was impatient. "It's good to see you again, Dr. Moore."

"Napoleon," Gretchen said and smiled back at Solo graciously.

Solo, however, was really watching Illya's expression. Kuryakin was indeed uncomfortable, and Napoleon was reasonably certain it had begun the moment he entered the room. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you, Illya," he said evenly.

The blue eyes hardened momentarily; then the expression was quickly gone. "I imagine so," Illya said tonelessly and looked up at Waverly. "Sir, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment in Medical, which I should keep before they send all of Section Three up here to escort me. Perhaps Mr. Solo could take Dr. Moore downstairs to the cafeteria for some coffee until I'm finished."

"Actually, I have Miss Rogers attending to that very matter," Waverly said and, as if on cue, Lisa Rogers came through the door pushing a cart topped with a silver tea set and a silver tray of freshly baked scones on the second shelf. "I thought we could have tea here until you're finished with the medical personnel." The older man looked at his agent. "I doubt you will be long, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya eyed the tea set and scones; then looked back at Waverly. "No, sir. Not long."

"Run along then. Mr. Solo and I will keep your Dr. Moore entertained until you're finished."

The younger agent did as he was bidden. As the door closed, Napoleon and Mr. Waverly looked at each other. "Well, I must say, that was a first for Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said.

"I was about to say the same thing, sir," Napoleon said and turned his head in Gretchen's direction. "Illya has never voluntarily gone to Medical without extreme duress."

Gretchen stood up and purposefully went to the cart to pour a cup of tea.

"Is there something you'd like to say to me, Gretchen?" Solo said.

She poured cream and added sugar before she looked up, stirring her drink. "You know him better than I do, Napoleon." She went to sit on the sofa in the corner of Waverly's large office.

Mr. Waverly also poured himself a cup of tea. While doctoring it with cream and sugar he spoke to Solo. "It would appear that your work is not yet completed with regard to Mr. Kuryakin. And your report to me was merely a preliminary one."

"Ah, yes, sir, it was—is. Perhaps, I should forgo the tea and get started on the complete report before we go into this any further."

"An excellent idea, Mr. Solo. I have another matter I would like to discuss with Dr. Moore anyway."

Never before had Napoleon felt so dismissed by his superior. Now he was going back to his office to dredge up and put to paper the events he tried to bury during his mission to Irbos. A wave of sharp pain flashed across his forehead and settled to a dull ache behind his eyes while his stomach knotted uneasily. The next few hours were going to be as torturous as any he had ever experienced while in the field.

* * *

><p>After a distasteful conversation with the UNCLE staff doctor, where he was given essentially the same prognosis as the doctor at Rhode Island Hospital, Illya soberly returned to his superior's office. He found Gretchen chatting casually with Lisa Rogers in her office, the teacart transferred to a spot beside the secretary's desk.<p>

He stood in the open doorway. "So, did Napoleon and Mr. Waverly both stand you up?"

"He had to tend to a rather urgent call from a field team," Lisa explained. "Would you like some tea, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"After the conversation I had with Medical, I could use a couple of those scones as well," Illya mused and pulled an empty chair from the corner of the room.

"Just two?" Gretchen teased. "C'mon, Illya, you're a veritable bottomless pit."

"And he doesn't gain an ounce," Lisa added with a touch of envy as she handed the agent a cup of tea. "Black, right?"

Kuryakin spotted a dish of a red jelled condiment. "Is that strawberry?"

"Yes, strawberry jam."

Illya spooned dollop into his tea and stirred it, a slight smile on his lips. He ventured a sip and the smile widened. "_Otlichno_, (excellent)" he whispered with a contented sigh.

"Mr. Waverly's idea," Lisa explained. "Actually I thought it was for the scones."

"He must have known what Medical was going to tell me." He looked down at Gretchen. "Three weeks, no heavy lifting," he said with annoyance.

"Imagine that," Gretchen replied with a grin.

"I _am_ allowed to spend it in the lab, however."

"They had better allow him to spend it in the lab," Lisa explained. "Or Medical would have needed a bomb-diffusion unit to keep our Mr. Kuryakin from detonating." When Illya glared at her, she merely added in _sotto voce_, "He doesn't like doctors."

"I noticed."

Illya pulled two scones from the silver tray and turned towards the hallway.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Gretchen said as she followed him into the hall.

"I see no reason to stay and intrude on your foray into the secretarial pool's agent gossip."

"No, you're in a snit because you couldn't bully the UNCLE doctors into letting you back on active duty before you've healed. Do you need an excuse to send me back home that desperately?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, it really doesn't matter anyway. I have to leave tomorrow to meet with a group of scientists at your marine facility in Lewes, Delaware. It's the real reason why Mr. Waverly wanted me to drive you to New York. He offered me a job." She put her arms around Illya's neck grinning broadly. "I'm going to work for UNCLE!" she exclaimed and she planted a kiss on the incredulous Russian agent's cheek.

* * *

><p>Napoleon rubbed his eyes with one hand and continued the massage around to the throbbing in the back of his neck. For nearly two hours, he tried to reduce the days spent in captivity under the tutelage of Dr. Dabree into a concise analysis. Each time he began, however, the remorse of his own mistakes, the helplessness he felt while his captor and his <em>partner<em> performed their horrific _pas de deux, _and the resulting animosity for that same partner clung to him like a drowning man.

Finally, he scribbled out a two-page narrative, more fiction than fact, and signed his name at the end. Waverly was going to unhappy with ambiguity of it, but Solo could not bring himself to write more than the skeletal facts of the event. He even left out Kuryakin's insubordination of ordering Agent Witherspoon to bodily place him on the helicopter.

He took mild comfort in the knowledge that Illya would have an equally difficult task submitting a report up to the Old Man's standards. In any case, Solo knew the next few days were not going to be easy ones for either of them. The best the Russian could hope for was that Medical would put him on the inactive roster and bar him from even working in his lab.

After suffering through the events of what he had informally dubbed "The Botched Vacation Affair", he turned his attention to the mission he had just returned from. Thankfully, the words flowed effortlessly as he reported the facts of the satisfactorily completed affair. Waverly would have no problems with this one. He looked at the clock, surprised at how much time had passed while he labored over his unpleasant task. His stomach had been so tied in knots, that was well-past lunchtime and he had not been the least bit hungry. Pickings in the commissary would be meager at best.

He wondered if Lisa Rodgers might have made it a point to save him a scone or two. At the same time, he would be able to find out if Illya and his attractive marine biologist were still in the building. A quick phone call gave him the answers he had hoped for: yes, there were scones and no, Illya and Gretchen left some time ago. Relieved, Solo delivered his mission reports to the secretarial pool for typing and rode the elevator to the top floor to collect his pastries. Afterward, he headed to the commissary, counting on good luck to keep him off Waverly's radar for a few more hours.

His luck ran out at precisely 4:00 in the afternoon with a summons via Miss Rogers to report to the Old man's office immediately. There was a vague hope that order to report might be about another assignment, quickly dashed when Napoleon saw the expression on Mr. Waverly's face.

Section One, Number One wasted no time on amenities. "Mr. Solo, this report on yours and Mr. Kuryakin's dealings with Dr. Dabree is balderdash."

"Well, I'm sure after you have Illya's half—"

"I don't expect Mr. Kuryakin's report to be any more useful than the piece of rubbish you've provided me here. Sit down."

Reluctantly, the CEA slipped into a seat a comfortable distance from his superior.

"Mr. Solo, you were supposed to urge Mr. Kuryakin to open up about his misgivings in The Gurnius Affair. It looks like you've joined him."

Napoleon rubbed his temples between his thumb and index finger. "I'm afraid it may be worse than that, sir. The situation Dabree created only accentuated what The Gurnius Affair did to both of us."

"I sensed the tension between the two of you the moment you entered my office this morning. And then, when Mr. Kuryakin made it a point to fulfill his obligation to Medical, it more than piqued my interest. I am turning this matter over to Dr. Pirelli."

"Illya's not going to give Pirelli anything useful."

"Perhaps not, but I'm counting on you to cooperate with him. As of this moment, you are pulled from active duty and ordered to report tomorrow morning to Dr. Pirelli and his staff for psychological evaluation."

"Sir, I am fine," Napoleon protested.

"Mr. Solo, you are not fine. Even your report from the past two weeks' mission has evidence of your current mental state. I want you and Mr. Kuryakin to work out the problems between the two of you before I send you out on the next mission. Dismissed."

Solo stood, his clenched jaw the only thing keeping him from lashing back verbally at his superior. He walked from Waverly's office with a normal gait, but it was not difficult for Lisa Rogers to see that the handsome agent was livid. A buzzer on her desk called her to her boss' office.

"Well, Miss Rogers?"

"I'll call Dr. Pirelli and have him clear his calendar for tomorrow. What about Mr. Kuryakin? He may not come in tomorrow."

Waverly puffed on his pipe a moment. "Oh, I expect he'll come in sometime in the afternoon. We'll let him tinker around in the comfort of his lab for a couple of hours and I'll speak to him about the same time tomorrow."

"Illya's going to be highly resistant."

"Of course, he will be. Just as Mr. Solo was today. I know my agents, Miss Rogers. Mr. Kuryakin will comply."

Lisa Rogers sighed. "I hope so. Otherwise, you'll lose the best enforcement team UNCLE's ever had."

"You don't need to remind me of that, Miss Rogers. Set up Mr. Solo's appointment. The sooner we get started, the sooner this nasty business can be put behind us."

* * *

><p><strong>Act II: "He's a consummate liar and you're an artist of misdirection. You'd make an excellent field team."<strong>

Napoleon Solo opened the door to the anti-chamber leading to the office of UNCLE's Head of Mental Health Department and Dr. Vincent Pirelli, MD, and looked around the room's pleasant interior. The walls were painted a muted sage green and the carpeting was a medium gray shag, both colors designed to project a calming atmosphere to the occupants. _An interrogation chamber by any other name_, Solo thought and entered, closing the door behind him.

The New York CEA was still fuming from Waverly's unyielding position that he needed professional intervention. He kept thinking repeatedly that if he hadn't been called back almost immediately after their escape from Dabree's compound, and then sent on a two-week mission, he might have been able to work through his feelings. He and Illya would have had a chance to hash out their differences without outside manipulation.

"But, no," he growled under his breath as he prowled the room, "the Old Man wants his top enforcement team out there slugging away at the bad guys. And to hell with what it might be doing to them."

Napoleon was almost standing in front of the office door when it opened and Dr. Pirelli stood in the doorway. "Very punctual, Mr. Solo. We're off to a good start."

_The hell we are_, Napoleon thought as a frown began to form. "Let's get this over with so I can get back to work."

Dr. Pirelli took a step back and to the side to allow the field agent to enter. "I was thinking the same thing, but I will need your help to accomplish it." He presented the hallway for Solo to precede him. "The room at the end of the hall, if you don't mind, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon passed him with a huff. "Spoken like a true interrogator."

The room at the end of the hall had the look, feel and smell of an executive den, complete with wood paneled walls, masculine accouterments and over-stuffed leather furniture. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Solo?" Dr. Pirelli asked as he walked to a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

"A little early in the morning for that, wouldn't you say, doctor?"

"Well, you know the saying, 'it must be five o'clock somewhere.' Scotch, I believe is your straight liquor of choice, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'm pretty particular about my scotch. Single malt and _no additives_," Napoleon said, emphasizing his last two words.

"I understand your suspicions that the drink could be 'doctored', if you pardon the pun. I prefer not to use drugs if I can obtain your voluntary cooperation instead. Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable?"

"There's nothing you can offer me that will make me feel comfortable, doctor."

"Again, I understand. Your profession dictates that you suppress most of your emotions in order to function in situations that would cause nearly anyone else to succumb to their instincts for self-preservation. Laudable, but eventually one must unleash those pent-up emotions or suffer the unpleasant consequences. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, I agree one hundred percent. And, if you'll be so kind to recommend to the man upstairs that what I really need are just a couple of weeks—"

"Mr. Waverly seems to believe that it's gone beyond that point."

"_He's_ the one who pulled me away from my critically-wounded partner, back to New York for another mission!" Solo growled vehemently.

"Surely, Mr. Waverly would have, at least, given you several days to make certain Mr. Kuryakin was going to recover."

"One doesn't argue with the Old Man when his mind is made up," Napoleon said severely. At the same time, he was fervently hoping the doctor was not observing him too closely. The actual truth was that he had not protested being pulled away; he was almost thankful for the excuse to put some distance between himself and his injured partner. He had been able to bury that bit of guilt while on the mission, but now it was back, glaring at him like the desert summer sun. It was the real reason he believed responsible for his anger, and trying to transfer the blame elsewhere for abandoning his partner was beginning to wreak havoc on his physical well-being as well.

Dr. Pirelli sat down behind his desk and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper.

"Is that my 'get out of jail free' card?" The CEA asked hopefully.

"Bravado may be a useful tool when THRUSH is about to interrogate you, but with me it's an annoyance that I won't put up with. You are lying to me, which I expected, but I believe you are lying to yourself as well. You also have a good home remedy against a hangover.

"I will be seeing Mr. Kuryakin tomorrow morning and will give Mr. Waverly my recommendations at that time. In the meantime, you might want to ask yourself if your pride is worth all this self-deception, self-denial and self-destruction. Appointment's over; Mr. Solo, you can leave now."

* * *

><p>That afternoon at four o'clock, Illya Kuryakin sat in the same black leather chair in Waverly's office as Napoleon had the day before.<p>

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly said, casually puffing on his pipe. "The report I received from Medical states you can return to your normal duties in three weeks."

"Yes, sir," the blond-haired agent replied, his hands folded in his lap.

"I'm surprised you gave in so easily. I actually had to read the report twice to make sure it was you they were talking about."

"I thought a few weeks in the lab would be a nice break from fieldwork."

"I can understand your desire to unwind a bit. The last few missions _were_ rather difficult."

"Yes, sir, they were."

"I'm sorry to have also deprived you of Dr. Moore's company, but I think she will make a fine addition to our marine department."

"I'm sure she will. Thank you for considering her. She was very excited when she left this morning." When Waverly did not continue speaking, Illya looked at him questioningly. "Was there anything else?"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, there is. I would like you to go to your office, compose and present to me a detailed report of what happened to you and Mr. Solo when Dr. Dabree captured the two of you. And, I want that report before you leave tonight." Waverly watched as his stoic Russian agent grew more pale than he would have thought possible, having lost most of his color from his injuries two weeks earlier. "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

Illya sat silent, frantically trying to find an answer to his superior's question without revealing the truth of how impossible that report was going to be to write. Finally, he managed to find both his voice and a solution. "What did Mr. Solo put in his report, if I may ask?"

"That's the tack I thought you'd take," Waverly said. "Mr. Solo found the report impossible to write and laid it at your doorstep. And you have just done the same."

"What are you suggesting, sir?" Kuryakin ventured, certain he was not going to like the answer to his question.

"I want you here tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. Report to Dr. Pirelli for psychological evaluation."

Illya stood abruptly. "There is nothing wrong with me. _Sir_," he said, tersely, his voice clipped and tightly controlled.

"I beg to differ. You and Mr. Solo have some unfinished business to attend to. I have asked Dr. Pirelli to coordinate and mediate this process. If the two of you cannot resolve your differences, I _will_ _end_ your partnership; as much as it would hurt the organization to do so."

Kuryakin tilted his head back, jutting out his jaw in an obviously defiant gesture. "Perhaps you should, sir."

"Affectation doesn't become you, Mr. Kuryakin. You've worked very hard to reach your station, and proven yourself many times over. Furthermore, you and Mr. Solo have been good for each other in many ways. I am having trouble understanding why both of you would willingly allow your association to wither away to nothing. Surely, it's not something so unconscionable that you can't come to some kind of understanding."

Illya was silent.

"Very well. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. Dismissed.

Kuryakin left his superior's office, his mind a blur of anger, disbelief, and surprising to him, _fear_. Under Pirelli's care, there would be no torture, humiliation, or threats to force vital UNCLE information from his lips. Why then did he wish he was facing the worst of THRUSH instead of an UNCLE psychologist?

* * *

><p>Like Napoleon twenty-four hours earlier, Illya entered the outer waiting room of Dr. Pirelli's Mental Health Division. The doctor, seated in a chair, thumbing through a magazine, looked up. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Kuryakin. I trust the information we offered was helpful in your portrayal of Colonel Nexor."<p>

The Russian agent blinked once. He had not expected this. "It was extremely helpful, doctor, thank you."

"And what is it that brings you down to my department again? More research?"

Illya frowned. "Don't toy with me, Dr. Pirelli," he said, hostility touching the words. "You know Mr. Waverly ordered me here."

"Why do you suppose he did that?"

Kuryakin was determined not to play into the psychologist's hand. He clasped his hands behind his back and drew himself up to a military stance that would have pleased even the cruelest of his Soviet commanders.

Dr. Pirelli stood up, chuckling to himself. "You know, you Section Two boys really amuse me. You project this veneer of normalcy and fearlessness, but underneath you're nothing but a bunch of frightened children, cowering in the dark." He noted the blond agent's only external reaction as the blue eyes glared back at him. "How much vodka did you put away last night after you got your order to see me?"

A slight smile touched Illya's mouth. "Classified."

"I'm disappointed. I thought there was enough of the scientist in you to take the information you'd been given and be able to apply it to more than one set of circumstances."

"Then, you've been misinformed. I have excellent recall and analytical abilities."

"Good. Now use your 'excellent' recall and analytical abilities to tell me _exactly_ why Mr. Waverly ordered you and Mr. Solo to my department under the threat of dissolving your partnership!"

Again, there was that unconscious straightening of the back as Kuryakin slipped behind the shield of ingrained military discipline. Dr. Pirelli had to admire what must have been a younger officer's method of coping against a rigid and cruel way of life. "I believe his words were that Mr. Solo and I have 'unfinished business' between us."

"_Do_ you have unfinished business?"

"If we do, I don't see how it can be anyone else's concern but ours."

"You and Mr. Solo are quite a pair. He's a consummate liar and you're an artist of misdirection. You'd make an excellent field team."

"I dislike being patronized as well."

"All right Mr. Kuryakin. I'm going to let you and Mr. Solo claim Round One."

"I have no desire to make this a contest, doctor. Mr. Solo and I are professionals. Any conflicts we may have will be dealt with _as_ professionals. We don't need you _or_ Mr. Waverly dictating to us how we accomplish that. And you can tell the Old Man exactly what I said."

"Don't worry," Dr. Pirelli replied. "I intend to give him a full report. There is one thing I'd like you to think about while you're being professional and all that."

"What?" Illya said impatiently.

"In the time we've been talking, you never once mentioned your partner by his first name. By the same token, neither did Mr. Solo. I was wondering if it was a conscious effort or not. You can go. I'll be in touch."

* * *

><p>Illya passed by the open doorway of Solo's office on the way to his own to find the room empty, the desk laden with multiple piles of report folders needing review by Napoleon as Chief Enforcement Agent. Inquisitively, he stepped inside, surveying the evidence that work was definitely in progress. The clock on the wall read 10:00 am. Illya assumed that Napoleon was most likely on a midmorning coffee break.<p>

Kuryakin glanced over the file folders littering his partner's desk and his attention focused on a folder labeled: _Andreas Petros_ (Solo's co-worker in The Man from THRUSH Affair)_._ He thought it odd, that a folder bearing the name of a Greek agent with whom he had worked years ago when posted to eastern Europe and under the guidance of the recently deceased Head UNCLE Northeast4 should find its way into Solo's possession. Curious, picked up the folder, opened it and scanned its contents, which included a voucher for airfare from Los Angeles to New York and another to Greece.

The notes on the desk referred to a mission on the island of Irbos. So that was it, Illya concluded. It was the mission for which Napoleon had been called back to New York. Time must have been of the essence. Illya continued to look at the folder while memory replayed details of missions he and Andreas had worked. Then, his eye caught the date listed on the air vouchers and a frown began to form.

Andreas was on a flight from Los Angeles to New York a full forty-eight hours _after _Napoleon left Providence. Why then had Gretchen told him that Solo needed to be in New York immediately when the man he would be on the mission with was not going to show up until two days later? Illya was just beginning to run through all possible scenarios, when Napoleon appeared in the doorway.

"Here to help with mission reports?" the dark-haired agent said with forced casualness.

"I had business in another quarter. I see you had a mission with Andreas Petros. I know him rather well; we were in the same survival school class and I worked with him for several years before coming to New York. How is he?"

"He's well. Excellent agent. I suspect he'll be the next CEA in the Northeast area."

"And it was fortunate you were able to get back to New York to meet him at the airport." Kuryakin laid the file folder back onto the credenza.

Napoleon came into the room. "You know, I was thinking; maybe we could persuade the Old Man to let us do a courier milk-run down to D.C. after which we could take in a few of the local sights. Maybe even go to a baseball game."

The blond-haired agent looked up, the blue eyes coolly appraising the sincerity of the man in the doorway. "I'm afraid, I'll have to decline. I have three weeks of sick time, which I hope to spend in Lewes, Delaware, where Gretchen is interviewing for the job Mr. Waverly offered her."

"Illya, I'm trying to find a way that we can sit down and work through the bad feelings that have come between us."

The voice was hard. "Is that a suggestion from Waverly or Dr. Pirelli?"

"You ought to know. You got the directive from the Old Man just as I did."

"Napoleon, right now all I really want to do is what you did in Providence. It will give me time to decide if I should be grateful that you held yourself back long enough to find out if I was going to live through the second surgery. At least, you were able to ease your mind knowing you wouldn't need to miss a funeral."

At first, Solo was taken aback at the scathing observation and wondered how Kuryakin had concluded that he had left earlier than he needed to. Then, he saw Petros' file folder on his desk. Anger flared. "You arrogant son-of-a-bitch! I sat by your miserable carcass for three fuckin' days and you kicked me out of the room. Then, when I leave a little earlier than I have to for a mission, you essentially call me a heartless bastard." He waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. "Take your damn sick leave. I'd rather put my fist through that Slavic-Gypsy face of yours than look at it. Go fuck your scientist."

Illya stood stone still, the blue eyes staring back showed no emotion, or rather a myriad of emotions, too many to sort through. The Russian drew a slow deep breath. "Very well," he said, almost tonelessly and turned to the door. "Be careful, Napoleon, because I won't be there to pull your ass out of trouble."

Napoleon watched the door close and with it, his anger dissipated, replaced by a deep heartache that was nearly a physical pain. Why couldn't he stop the anger? Why did he feel like he needed to retaliate for every rebuff Illya flung his way? Why, even now as he asked himself these very questions, could he not swallow his pride and follow his partner with the olive branch?

"Why?" he whispered.

* * *

><p><strong>Act III:<strong> "_**Do svidaniya**_**"**

_UNCLE Marine Science facility, Lewes, Delaware_

"Dr. Moore, your credentials are excellent. Based on the studies you've done for the Park Service, and your experience with UNCLE, I think you'll fit in quite well. The job is yours if you want it." Ross McHenry, the director of the UNCLE Marine Sciences facility stood up from behind his desk and extended his hand.

Gretchen stood as well and returned the handshake. "I'm really excited about working with your organization," she said with a smile.

"Having seen the main headquarters in New York, I can't promise anything that exciting, but we do do some cutting edge research here. It's necessary for us to try and anticipate where THRUSH might decide to turn their energies next. Maybe even get a jump on them."

"Well, I don't know about you," Gretchen said, "but I find that exciting."

"Good. On that note, I'd like to take you to dinner and we can talk 'shop'."

"That would be lovely, Dr. McHenry."

"Please, call me Ross. Nearly everyone here has a Ph.D. and we all use first names." The phone on Dr. McHenry's desk rang. "A moment please." He picked up the receiver. "This is Ross." He listened for a moment and looked up. "Francine says there's a man at the reception desk with a delivery for you."

"For me?" Dr. Moore shook her head.

"Blond-haired man. He flashed an UNCLE ID."

Gretchen's mouth opened in surprise. "Illya—"

"Were you expecting him?"

"Well, no, but he has a way of showing up unexpectedly."

"Wait a second. You said Illya? Illya Kuryakin, from Section Two in New York?"

"Yes, we met about five years ago in Baltimore."

"I remember. THRUSH was poisoning the blue crabs in the Chesapeake Bay. We labored a few long nights to solve that mystery, I'll tell you. I'm surprised we didn't offer you a job then."

"I was still working on my Ph.D. Then I went to the National Park Service."

Director McHenry smiled. "Uncle Sam instead of UNCLE."

They both looked up at the knock on the door jamb. "I have a delivery for Dr. Gretchen Moore."

"Illya!" Gretchen went to the door to give the smiling blond Russian a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop in see how you were getting along." He nodded to the Director. "Dr. McHenry, it's good to see you again. Gretchen will make a fine addition to your staff."

"That seems to be the general consensus. If you'll excuse us, Mr. Kuryakin, I was about to take our new staff member for some dinner."

"Oh, Ross," Gretchen said apologetically, "could I get a rain check on that? I have to close out my apartment in Cape May and find a place to rent here. Illya promised to help me move if I took the job."

"Certainly, Gretchen. Do you think a week is sufficient time?"

The Director was being cordial, but Gretchen could sense the unspoken challenges being exchanged between her new employer and the Section Two agent. "Plenty of time," she said and grasped Illya by the arm to exit the room. "Thanks, Ross." She did not let go of his arm until they were outside the building. Then she faced him with her own challenge. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to help you move. Isn't that what you just told your new boss?"

"You're playing games with me. What happened with Napoleon?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"I mean nothing that you need to be concerned about. End of discussion."

Gretchen put her hands on her hips. "I think I'm finally beginning to read you, Illya. It's not what you say; it's what you leave out. You wouldn't be here if things were fine between you and Napoleon. You'd be up in New York, working in your lab, and disregarding your doctor's orders."

"Am I to assume, then, that my presence here is not welcome?" He moved closer to her, as he held her eyes' attention until he was close enough to brush her lips with his own. "Hmm?"

As he had intended, Gretchen responded, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pressing her body against his. He, in turn, encircled her waist and leaned into the kiss, which by now had grown quite passionate. When they finally disengaged, she laid her head against shoulder. "Damn you, Illya, how to you ever expect me to give you up when you kiss me like that?"

"You will, because after I've helped you move, I will be leaving; and your new boss will have no competition whatsoever. He is very much attracted to you, if you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed."

"And you will be following the wise advice of your friends."

"But, what about your feelings, Illya?"

"You already know them. I've requested a temporary reassignment to our Northeast headquarters. There have been some recent changes in personnel and they need help reorganizing. I was posted there initially when I joined UNCLE so I am familiar with both the operations and the people."

"And you'd be running away from Napoleon too."

"I wouldn't put it in quite those terms. I prefer 'breathing space'."

"You're running away. And you don't run away from anything."

"There is such a thing as a tactical retreat which serves as time to regroup and reevaluate. This is very much one of those times."

"And what about your running away from me?"

"What you said before is correct. Our relationship is largely one of mutual lust. I cannot give you what you want, as much as I might be tempted to do so. You deserve more than that and I am happy for the possibilities now open to you."

Gretchen took a deep breath and stepped back from him. "Illya, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'd like you to leave now."

The blond agent smiled a sober smile, but there was no sadness in it. "I understand. And I will do as you ask." He closed the gap between them and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thanks for the memories, Gretchen." Then he lifted her hand and kissed it as well. "_Do svidaniya,_" he said softly. "_Adieu_."

Teary-eyed, she watched him walk away from her. There was no slumping of his shoulders or sorrow in his gait, as if he had just given her a "see you later" goodbye. It was in that moment, she knew her friends had been right all along. She turned back to the UNCLE facility, anxious with anticipation to see if Ross McHenry's offer for dinner might still be available.

* * *

><p>"He did <em>what<em>?" Napoleon Solo exclaimed when Mr. Waverly told his CEA of Kuryakin's transfer request. "Why that goddamn little godless Commie prick!"

"Mr. Solo!" Waverly rebuked his agent for the thoughtless tirade. "Control yourself!"

Napoleon came back to himself and sighed heavily. "Sorry, sir."

"As you should be. Your outburst seems to add credence to the reasoning behind Mr. Kuryakin's request."

"I tried to offer him a chance to talk. He as good as spat in my face."

"On the contrary, Mr. Solo. He knows that now is not the time for the two of you to work out whatever seems to have been building over a period of time. I agree with Dr. Pirelli. I should not have pushed the two of you to clear the air as quickly as I did. And it's why I approved Mr. Kuryakin's request for a _temporary_ transfer. In the meantime, you will rotate with other unpaired agents or go on assignment alone."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon replied, but he was angrily thinking that the split might actually be a blessing in disguise. He and Illya had become too intermeshed in each other's private lives. It had begun to affect the way they operated as a team; often they were more concerned with each other's safety than with the mission. The "Botched Vacation Affair" had been a prime example of that.

The best way was to work alone or with another agent he barely knew. Sure, Illya knew his moves and most of the time they did not even need to speak to convey their messages to each other. But, he could work with other agents if he had to. If nothing else, UNCLE agents were adaptable.

* * *

><p>Illya Kuryakin packed his sparse collection of suits and sport coattrousers combinations with more care than he normally would have if his assignment had been a regular mission. He was not acquainted with the new head of UNCLE, Northeast, and felt it wise to make a good impression. Otherwise, he was ambivalent about the whole trip. He did not particularly want to leave UNCLE, New York, but currently, the situation between Napoleon and him made staying much less than attractive.

Had he not seen the Andreas Petros file on Solo's desk with the travel voucher, he would have looked on Napoleon's suggestion of a trip to D.C. much more favorably. Knowing that his partner had "skipped out" intentionally, Illya was feeling far less inclined towards magnanimity. Additionally, Waverly's push to get them to resolve their differences irritated him as well. The Head of UNCLE, New York, rarely made errors in judgment, but as far as Kuryakin was concerned, Waverly was meddling in a place he didn't belong.

Then there was Gretchen Moore. The conclusion of their relationship gave him little reason to stay as well. While he had no regrets, he had to admit the time he spent with her had been emotionally satisfying and sexually exhilarating; though he was more than aware that it had not been not so for her. He easily convinced himself she was better off without him, especially when he remembered how her new boss had taken more than a professional interest in her.

Illya closed the suitcase and latched the locks. Hoisting the heavy luggage from the bed, he made a mental tour of the apartment for items that needed attention before he left for his six-week or longer tour in Europe. The refrigerator was empty of perishables; his landlady had two months' worth of rent and would be collecting his sparse mail. He was ready to catch a cab to the airport for his departure two hours hence. Perhaps in two months, he and Napoleon would be ready to either settle their differences or would agree to go their separate professional ways.

* * *

><p><em>UNCLE NE Headquarters, Berlin<em>

"Welcome to back to Berlin, Mr. Kuryakin," the receptionist greeted as Illya entered by the agents' entrance. She handed him his ID badge.

"It's good to be back," the blond agent lied and slipped the yellow triangular badge onto his jacket pocket. "Would you inform _Herr_ Buchmeister that I have arrived and am at his service?"

The pretty towheaded receptionist smiled. "He told me to tell you he is waiting for you in his office."

_Ah_, _German efficiency, _Illya thought and continued through the steel door to the heart of the first floor. The elevators were in the same part of the building as the ones in the New York office, so he did not need to keep his attention on where he was going. Instead, his mind was recalling the content of the new UNCLE Chief's dossier. Words spoke very little about the man himself, and Kuryakin did not know Ulrich Buchmeister personally. He did, however, have a strong suspicion the new Number One was going to be vastly different from the old.

Harry Beldon (The Summit Five Affair) had been many things, not the least of which a double agent for THRUSH. It was a secret he had even managed to keep even from Waverly himself. Harry had also been Kuryakin's mentor, and the transplanted Russian had respected the man for all his flamboyancy and relaxed style of management. Beldon's betrayal of UNCLE struck Illya as a personal affront from which he still smarted. It was the main reason he hesitated before entering Buchmeister's office.

The man who sat at the twin of the large revolving table from which Alexander Waverly conducted business was the epitome of Aryan stock Hitler would have praised highly: sturdy frame, greying hair that once was blond, sparkling blue eyes in a classic peasant face. "Herr Kuryakin," he said standing.

"_Guten Abend, Herr_ Buchmeister," Illya responded formally. "_Ich hoffe die Arbeit doch nicht bei Ihnen überwältigen noch._("I hope the work has not overwhelmed you yet." (formal))_"_

"There is no need for you to speak German in my presence, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm quite fluent in English, as well as many other languages."

"I intended no disrespect, sir," Illya countered, somewhat taken aback.

"I also know of your relationship to my predecessor, but that was in the past and you can expect no special considerations from me. Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"

The blond Russian suddenly had disquieting feeling about the man he was to work for over the next six to eight weeks. "Completely, sir."

"My secretary has a list of security arrangements I will require be implemented as soon as possible. She will brief you on any details."

"That's why I'm here, _Herr_ Buchmeister. Will you want those security arrangements at your other offices as well?"

"I am _not_ the extravagant blowhard your Harry Beldon was, Kuryakin. The Berlin office will be the only office, clear?" When Illya failed to acknowledge the question asked, Buchmeister glared back. "I said, is that clear?"

It was evident to Kuryakin that the NE Chief had some issues, if not with him personally, then with his tie to Harry Beldon. "Permission to speak plainly, sir," he said tonelessly.

Buchmeister looked at him critically as he tried to ascertain the exact nature of what his subordinate would say if permitted. "Very well, speak your mind."

"Sir, I am at somewhat of a loss to comprehend your apparent rancor towards me. While Harry Beldon, indeed, was my mentor and I, his protégé, I did not use that status to elicit special considerations from him. No one was more unprepared for or felt more betrayed by his treachery than I was. He taught me many things, but I never felt compelled to emulate him. I can understand your animosity under those terms. However, if your distrust stems from another source, I should like to be made aware of it, and appease your concerns, if possible."

Buchmeister frowned. "Harry Beldon is part of it."

"Which I have done my best to clarify and defuse."

"Why did you ask for this assignment, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Uncertain of what Buchmeister was alluding to, Illya chose the most innocuous reason. "I thought I could be of help, sir."

"I guess there is no easy way to say this, so I will just say it. I was a soldier in World War II, not necessarily because I believed in the Nazi cause, but because I believed in fighting for my country. And now we are torn apart; and the Communists rule the land where I was born."

Kuryakin shook his head incredulously. "And one of the first things Harry Beldon taught me was that as an UNCLE agent, I do not have the luxury of holding onto feuds of the past. Do Mr. Waverly and the other Section One chiefs know of your personal grudges?"

"You are over-stepping your place, Kuryakin."

"Perhaps, but before you put me in my so-called place, hear this: I was a child of the war. My own government killed my mother and grandparents. Your government killed nearly all of the family I had left. I don't agree with much of the current politics of my country. At least, there is UNCLE to give me what no government can—"

Illya slipped back into his subordinate role, and pulled his shoulders back. "I believe I have some security arrangements to see to. I will continue those duties until they are completed, or until I am called back to New York. So, if you will excuse me—sir."

Before Buchmeister could say another word, Kuryakin retreated to the door, which opened, then closed, leaving a rather perplexed Continental Chief to reflect on being dressed down by the only Russian in all of UNCLE. He wondered briefly if Waverly knew what he had, then he nodded perceptively. "_Ja, Alexander, Sie wei__ß__, Sie haben immer gewusst_ (Yes, Alexander, you know; you have always known)."

* * *

><p><em>UNCLE Headquarters, New York. Six weeks later.<em>

"I hear proper protocol in Section II here in New York is to present yourself to the Chief of Enforcement immediately upon initial arrival into HQ."

Napoleon Solo looked up from studying one of the myriad of reports littering his desktop to the speaker who stood in the doorway of his office.

"Tony!" exclaimed Napoleon with a broad grin as he rose from his chair to greet the equally smiling man who now moved into the confines of the CEA's office, letting the pneumatic door close behind him. "Seeing your name on the transfer roster from Rome was a pleasant surprise," Solo added as he extended his hand to the other enforcement agent.

"When my field partner for the past half-dozen years took a fatal Thrush bullet several months ago, I thought it time for a change of scenery," commented Tony honestly as he accepted Solo's hand in a hearty shake.

"I was sorry to hear about your partner," commiserated Napoleon with real empathy. With a simple gesture he offered Tony a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"It's been a difficult reality to deal with, I admit. But he went down fighting for what he believed in, what we all believe in," Tony forwarded as he seated himself in a chair. "Guess, if you have to die in the line of duty, at least that your death had some meaning does make it somewhat bearable for those you leave behind."

Yes, Napoleon had to agree with that, though it was still a very harsh reality that too many of those in Section II had to face. Napoleon regained his own chair behind the desk as Tony spoke on.

"Fortunately, Arsene agreed with my request for a transfer, so here I am. And I'll admit, though I've enjoyed my years working out of the Rome office, finishing out my career from the 'top drawer' as it were is definitely an appealing prospect."

Tony Simonelli had been an enforcement agent in the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement for the past 13 years, four of those spent in Section III in Geneva and the last nine in Section II in Rome. He had been in the same Survival School class as Solo and, though the two had not been close buddies, they had definitely been on friendly terms. Four years older than Napoleon, he was now just a few days short of a year away from retirement out of the field.

"How is Arsene?" Napoleon asked after Arsene Corio, the head of Section II in the Rome office. "Been at least a year since I last saw him."

"He's fine. Doing well in the position though, like most of the Northeast Section II lead agents, he's a bit overwhelmed with administrative details at the moment."

"Yes, that Beldon business… most disturbing."

Tony couldn't resist a little smirk. "You have a talent for polite understatement, Napoleon. After what that man let that burrowing termite Strothers do to you, I'm amazed smoke doesn't come out of your ears every time his name is even mentioned."

"We nailed his Thrush-speckled hide to the wall in the end; that's the important thing."

"So it is," agreed Tony with a quick nod. "Which brings to mind the question of when do I get to meet that capable Russian cohort of yours? The partnership of Solo and Kuryakin has become quite legendary among all of us in Section II, you know."

Napoleon shifted a bit in his chair: a most uncharacteristic action for the always composed and oh-so-nonchalant Solo. And, despite the fact he hadn't had contact with Napoleon in years, it was something Simonelli could not help but notice.

"Illya's been in Berlin for the past month or so, on loan to Northeast. He's seeing to some of the security and personnel policy enhancements Mr. Waverly wants implemented in that office."

"Wise idea to get that all put to rights before the new Continental Chief settles in," Tony kept his statement general, figuring it better to make no further reference to Kuryakin. He sensed something was off, and he wasn't in any position to inquire as to what.

"I hope you have some interesting assignments in mind for me, Napoleon," Tony then tactfully took the conversation off in another direction. "I'm looking to end my field career in a blaze of glory," he added with a sly wink.

Napoleon grinned in return. "Oh, I think I can oblige you in that, Tony; never fear."

"Glad to hear it!" Tony responded enthusiastically. "I must be off to Medical for routine check-in upon transfer," he then stated as he rose from his chair, Napoleon also rising from his at the visual cue. "I'm excited to get the chance to work out of North American headquarters, and I'm even pleased to be reporting directly to you, Napoleon. Must be something in the water."

Napoleon laughed. "I insure it's kept properly spiked with happy juice at all times."

"So that's the secret of your success, huh?"

"I won't confirm that even under Thrush torture."

Tony laughed lightly. "Good to see you again, Napoleon. Hopefully you'll find me an asset to your section."

The two shook hands once more and then Tony took his leave for his visit to Medical.

After Simonelli's departure, Napoleon pondered about an opening assignment for Tony. He himself had just been given a mission in San Francisco. He was to fly out tomorrow for that one and Waverly had required he allot himself a partner for its duration.

Over the past few months Napoleon Solo had been partnering with agents other than Illya Kuryakin. First because of Illya's needed recovery from his injury and then because… well, because. During that timeframe, however, Napoleon had managed to not repeat partnering with any particular agent. He told himself it was the right thing to do as CEA, to get to personally know the operational style of as many of his Section II enforcement agents as possible. Mr. Waverly hadn't gainsaid his continuing flow of assorted partners, but the Old Man had his own suspicions as to Solo's motives in moving from one field partner to another and it had little if anything to do with personally getting to know the field approach of the agents under his command.

Yet, with Illya in Berlin, it had become possible for Napoleon to partner with other agents without it raising eyebrows or promoting gossip within New York HQ. And Napoleon knew that Tony Simonelli was a damn good field agent who had risen to second in command in the Operations and Enforcement section of the Rome subsidiary office and Number 6 in the entirety of Northeast Section II. Additionally, Simonelli was extremely talented with explosives, just shy of Illya's extraordinary level of expertise in that particular regard. And he was someone Napoleon liked and who respected Napoleon's abilities as a leader, so there wouldn't be any personality or authority conflicts.

Yes, the more he thought on it, the more Napoleon concluded Tony Simonelli would be the perfect partner for him during the San Francisco mission. Well, as perfect as could be managed at the moment anyhow.

* * *

><p>The phone on Solo's desk rang for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, so when he answered, his curt response was more severe than he intended. Since it was not prudent to growl at Mr. Waverly's secretary, he became immediately contrite. "Sorry, Miss Rogers, it seems like everybody wants a piece of me today. Does 'he' want me right now, or can I get a cup of coffee first?"<p>

"Actually, Mr. Solo, 'he' was curious if you had selected a mission partner for San Francisco."

With a smile Lisa could almost see through the phone, Napoleon answered. "Yes, I was considering Tony Simonelli, a new transfer. I think the mission would be a good fit for him and a good way to get his feet wet in the New York Office. Besides, we'll have a lot to talk about on the flight. We graduated Survival School in the same class, you know."

"Actually, I did know, or should I say, Mr. Waverly knew."

"Not surprising."

"Have you told Mr. Simonelli yet?"

"I was just about to call him, why?

"Mr. Waverly will handle that. He'd like you to stop down and see Dr. Pirelli instead."

"You have got to be kidding me, Lisa. See Pirelli today? Just before heading out on a mission? What does the Old Man have against me this week? I can't seem to get on his good side no matter what I do."

"Well, it won't help if you make a fuss again about seeing Dr. Pirelli."

"Can't I put it off until I get back? What difference will it make anyway?"

"And I was to remind you that you've already managed to put it off for the last three weeks. Just do it, Napoleon. It'll make you feel better."

"That's easy for you to say. They don't call them 'head-shrinkers' for nothing."

"I'll tell Dr. Pirelli you're on your way."

Solo scowled at the phone. "Miss Rogers, you're all heart." He hung up, certain he could hear her chuckling. What a way to start a mission! Disgusted, the handsome CEA pulled his array of paperwork into a stack and shoved it into his top desk drawer. He'd rather do ten stacks of mission reports than venture down into the mind-vultures' lair. Damn the Old Man, anyway. Things had been going just fine the last six weeks; now Pirelli was going to try and stir it all up again.

_But not unless I let him_, Napoleon decided with determination as he forced himself to push the correct button on the elevator to send him down to the medical floor. Yeah, he was going to make the doctor work for what little he was going to get. He opened the door to the waiting room to find it, happily, empty and took a seat as close to the outside door as possible. And he waited.

Thirty minutes later, he was still waiting for Pirelli, and fuming over the wasted time he could have spent finishing his mission reports instead. He stood to leave and the inner door opened.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Solo. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you."

"As a matter of fact, doctor—" Solo began but the doctor interrupted.

"Good. I was looking over my notes from our last session. Follow me, please."

Napoleon could not stifle a smug grin as he formed a mental picture of Dr. Pirelli studying the practically nonexistent notes from six weeks ago. Confidently, he strode through the door, and to the plush study, where a highball glass waited for him, filled with ice cubes and a double shot of scotch.

"Single malt, no additives," Dr. Pirelli said, offering his patient the glass with an outstretched arm. "Except for the ice cubes, of course."

Solo smiled charmingly, arms crossed. "No, thank you."

"That's right. I remember your aversion to beverages you haven't poured yourself." He took a large sip of the scotch and set the glass back on the desk. "Help yourself, then, if you like. Any bottle, any glass. I assure you, the liquor is not tainted."

"That's fine. I'll just have some water from your sink over there." Napoleon walked across the room, pulled a paper cup from the holder and filled it from the long, crook-shaped faucet. Then he sat triumphantly down on the leather couch and drained the paper cup confidently. "Delicious," he said grinning. "So what are we going to talk about? I have to tell you, I'm a little pressed for time thanks to your lengthy review of my case."

"I'm afraid that couldn't be helped. It took me that long to set up the dispensing device on the water spigot."

Napoleon crushed the paper cup in his hand and looked up, his expression suddenly wary. "What dispensing device?" he said, his voice hard, as he realized he had just been duped.

Dr. Pirelli reached out and took the paper cup from Napoleon's fist. "Now, if I told you that, it would soon cease to be a useful tool. How do you feel, Mr. Solo?"

"Fine," the UNCLE agent snarled.

"Good to know. In a couple of minutes, I'm going to start asking you some questions, and you're going to want to answer them freely and truthfully."

"You have no authority to do this to me," Napoleon said angrily.

"I think if you take the time to look it up, you'll find that I'm well within my authority; and, if that doesn't convince you, I can show you Mr. Waverly's authorization. I believe he's your boss, right?"

There was no help for it. He was stuck; he knew it and Pirelli knew it. "Get on with it," he said in disgust.

"I understand you're heading out for another mission tomorrow. Where are you going?"

"San Francisco."

"That wasn't so hard now, was it? Will you be going alone?"

"No, Mr. Waverly wants a second agent to go. Tony Simonelli will be going with me."

"I thought Mr. Kuryakin was your partner. Why isn't he going to San Francisco instead?"

Solo frowned. "You know damn well why. He's in Berlin."

"That seems to really bother you. Why?"

The frown deepened to a scowl. "You know, I tried to do what you and Waverly wanted me to do. I tried to hold out the olive branch, to see if we could talk out what wasn't right between us. But what does the little bastard do? He goes to Waverly for a transfer to Northeast. He runs away—with Waverly's blessing no less!"

"Maybe Mr. Kuryakin wasn't ready to talk just then. Did you try to contact him since he's been in Berlin?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Maybe I wasn't ready to talk to _him_. _That_ door can swing both ways."

"Someone has to make the first move eventually."

"Well, it's his turn now. I already tried."

"You sound very angry."

"I am."

"What's the real reason you're angry at your partner? You were angry at him before he left for Berlin."

Solo looked up at the doctor, the hazel eyes blazing. "He fried my fucking brain twice in less than a month! Then he gave me some lame song-and-dance about doing it to save my life—and to top it off, he mutinies on me to go back _alone _and blow up Dabree's compound!"

"For which he almost lost his life."

"That was his own damn fault."

"Is that how you felt when you found him?"

Napoleon sighed heavily and shook his head. "At first, I didn't know how bad it was; he fought me when I tried to turn him over. There was blood all over his side and on the ground. He kept mumbling something; I couldn't really tell what he was saying. But then he looked at me and said, 'You win'."

"Do you know what he meant?"

Solo scowled slightly. "He decided that he was going to die and he wanted to end our argument before he did," he said both anger and anguish heavy in his voice. "That's what really sticks in my craw; he just gave up. Goddamn Russian fatalism."

"But in conceding defeat, he admitted that you were right. Being right is very important to you, isn't it? You hate to lose."

"Yes, winning is important to me."

"What about Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I often have to cajole him to have a more positive perspective."

"Then I would say you and he are very different people, and still you're friends as well as partners."

"I'm not sure I want a permanent partner anymore."

"Why not?"

"You said it: friends. And I almost lost that friend."

"So that's why you've spent the last six weeks going on missions alone or with different partners." Dr. Pirelli went to his desk and picked up a small gas canister. "We've covered a lot of ground today, Mr. Solo. I'm going to spray a mist in your face, which will counter-act the truth drug I gave you. Your memory of this session will slip away like a dream, but you will be more amenable when I ask to see you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Napoleon answered easily. He breathed deeply as the mist hit his face and looked up at the doctor. "May I go now?" he asked caustically.

"You can go now, Mr. Solo. Good luck on the mission."

* * *

><p>As winter approached in San Francisco in the year 1967, the "Summer of Love" was something buried beneath the human debris of homelessness, drug addiction, hunger and crime. "The Death of the Hippie" ceremony, a mock funeral to signal the official end to the great socio-experiment, had been staged some weeks before and the motto of "Bring the revolution to where you live!" was the new battle cry. However, some of the young revelers remained in the Haight-Ashbury section of city. Yet these societal loose ends now found themselves in a rather hostile environment, hopelessly entrenched within those previously mentioned facets of human debris. The city officials had never wanted them in their municipality and now exhibited little tolerance for the remaining "anti-community".<p>

Napoleon Solo had been in San Francisco for the past week and he found the entire atmosphere more depressing than liberated. Too many strung-out, starving kids crowded together in makeshift housing arrangements barely keeping body and soul together for him to account this any type of beneficial Cultural Revolution. His own mission in the city had proven a straightforward and successful one. He and his temporary partner had cleared out a Thrush satrap and destroyed a lab producing a very dangerous type of hallucinogen the Thrushies had been testing on unwitting young people in the remnants of the Haight-Ashbury hippie society. As Napoleon walked the district, he was grateful he had done his bit to alleviate some of the heartbreak he saw around him. But these kids: they needed to find a better way to make their point, and they needed to go home to people that cared about them.

Solo was about to turn back in the direction of his own hotel a good ways from this particularly exploited area when she caught his eye. Though he only espied her from behind, he would recognize that pert little backside anywhere, not to mention the wispy mass of carrot-hued curls.

"Ginny?" he shouted toward the girl. "Virginia Naline?"

She turned in response to the full name and pale gray-green eyes lit with pure pleasure upon seeing who called it.

"Sir Brave and Besotting!" she shouted in return as she sped full-tilt toward him, finally throwing herself bodily into his arms.

Napoleon staggered back from the force of her embrace, but quickly regained his balance as he clasped his arms about her waist, accepting her fierce clinch for a long moment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he replaced the position of his arms with hands to facilitate sufficiently moving her body back so he could look her in the face.

"I came for the love-in and got left in the fall-out," she commented with a negligent shrug.

"Now why did you go and do a silly thing like that, Carrot-top?" he asked her bluntly. "You had the hippie community lifestyle in Provincetown, along with a job that at least provided enough resources to afford you a suitable place to live."

"But here supplied the wherewithal to bequeath me a dynamic place to 'be', my sagely champion."

"Assuming your state of 'being' includes a desire to starve or get mugged or raped or worse."

Ginny smiled indulgently at him. "You're like honey spread on wheat bread. You know that, oh dark prince?"

"I'm sensible," countered Napoleon.

"Uh-huh. Like I said: honey on wheat bread, temptingly sweet overlaying the utterly wholesome."

Napoleon laughed lightly. "That's probably the first time in my life I've ever been described as wholesome."

"My eyes have been opened, white-knightly one. Thus do I see beyond the mundane nearsightedness that generally prevails on this plane of existence."

"Aw Ginny, don't tell me you've gone that route? No drug can open your eyes, honey. All it can do is possibly shut them permanently. Believe me: I know."

Ginny gazed at him steadily for a moment, her manner suddenly serious. "Somehow I do believe you know."

"Good. Now that we've established how knowing a man I am," returned Napoleon, "let me see to it you have a decent meal in your stomach before I pack you up and send you back where you belong."

"What makes you think I haven't had a decent meal, hunny-bunny?'

"When?" challenged Napoleon.

"Day before yesterday," admitted Ginny.

Napoleon sighed once in vexation and then grasped Ginny proprietarily by the elbow. "Come on, Carrot-top: we've got a lunch date."

"The potent haze of my femininity at last engulfs the most chivalrous of knights!" exclaimed the delighted Ginny. "I beg you, Sir Lancelot, spare not my tired virtue while intently cramming my empty gut!"

Napoleon only chuckled in response.

* * *

><p>The maître d' at the restaurant located in his hotel where Napoleon escorted Ginny to lunch was less than pleased by the appearance of the hippie girl who arrived in tow with Mr. Solo. A discreet twenty in hand convinced him to overlook her slatternly dress of faded blue jeans and tie-dyed tee as he seated the pair pointedly at the back of the dining room.<p>

"I'm sorry, Mr. Solo, but this is really the best I can do under the circumstances," he apologized somewhat stiffly.

"It has a clear view to the main entrance, so this will do fine," conceded Napoleon. He knew when not to push his luck.

"Most obliging of you, sir," the head waiter acknowledged with a slight bow.

With a snap of his fingers to signal forward a server who handed the two patrons menus and then himself departed, the maitre d' briskly returned to his station near the entry.

Ginny giggled.

"Something funny?" asked Napoleon.

"He's probably thinking I'm your exploratory mine into the counter-culture, if you get my drift."

"I get the drift, and yes, that is most probably what he is thinking," Napoleon agreed.

"I promise not to rumble if you set a foot – or whatever body part best suits the operation – into a shaft," pressed Ginny.

"Honey, I'm buying you lunch and then a bus ticket home. And that's all. Understood?"

Ginny sighed. "Look, Sir Lancelot: you don't even have a clue in what direction to steer that trusty charger of yours to bring me back to the castle of my forbears."

"So you'll tell me."

"Maybe I won't. I'm not a child, you know. Or some kind of teenage runaway. I'm a grown woman."

"Who tends to make poor life choices."

"But they're _my_ choices to make. After all, it is _my_ life."

At that point the server returned to take their orders. Solo ordered for them both: a fresh minestrone soup, grilled steak and mushroom sandwiches on sourdough bread, and homemade lemonade.

After the waiter had left with their written orders in hand, Ginny remarked a bit frustratedly, "And shouldn't I have choices about what to eat for lunch either?"

Napoleon grinned a bit sheepishly. "You question my choices?"

"Well, I'll clean-breast to hanging a steady hook-and-dot on your languid leaning with lounge-y lust beside that redheaded Lady Macbeth in P-town."

"Oh her," responded Napoleon uncomfortably.

"Where did the emerald-eyed banshee spirit you off to anyhow? I did push all the tilt-head and raise-eyebrows buttons and couldn't tag any such inmate anywhere in the local medical haunts."

Napoleon considered how to reply and finally leaned forward across the table, hands clasped together on the cloth, as his hazel eyes earnestly met hers. "Look Ginny: I'm in a rather dangerous line of work and, for your own safety, it's best you know as little as possible about any of it."

Ginny's gray-green eyes gazed just as earnestly into his for a long moment before she asked a question posed more in the manner of a statement. "She snatched you, didn't she? I mean literally snatched, as in kidnapped bodily for nefarious purposes; not snagged hormonally for fun-and-games."

"Yes, she snatched me, as you put it," conceded Napoleon with a bit of vexation in his voice as he returned his hands to his side of the table and concentrated on the motions necessary for taking a sip from his water glass.

"And I palmed-up with the nitwit's helping hand as it were."

"Don't blame yourself there, Carrot-top. Any 'nitwitting' that went down was purely on my part. I didn't see through her disguise and honestly I should have."

"She was in disguise? Might solve a bit of puzzlement then because I swear I saw her a couple times here in San Fran, but that gal was a halo-head with earth vision."

"A halo-head with earth vision?"

"You know: a platinum blonde with brown eyes."

"You sure, Ginny?" pursued Solo warily.

"Well, I wouldn't grasp the Bible on it," Ginny conceded. "Wasn't like a face-to-face confront or anything. Only saw her in a human press. She was with some 'zarro-looking old cronk. Something about that one gave me nerve quakes, but I figured – if Red-bottled-Blonde was a nurse like she made noise back when you hit the floor – the cronk could well be a private twisted-head patient. So I sure wasn't going to instigate friendly chit-whatever-happened-to-chat with R-b-B under those circumstances."

Ginny watched in befuddlement as Napoleon grasped the small floral centerpiece from the middle of the table and drew it over to him. Then he tugged a pen from his inside jacket pocket. She espied some kind of strap peeking out from under his shirt collar as he took that action.

Napoleon pulled off the pointed end of the seeming ballpoint, flipped it to what was a narrow gridded tube and replaced that into the barrel. Finally he extended downward a small antenna from what would normally be the clicker of instrument and gave that assemblage a short clockwise twist. Hunched in his seat so he was hidden from view behind the re-positioned floral arrangement, he addressed the reconfigured pen.

"Open Channel D."

"Channel D open," came a female voice from the pen.

"Napoleon Solo in San Francisco. Please connect me directly to Mr. Waverly in New York."

"Greetings, Napoleon!" a different female voice enthusiastically hailed him through the pen. "Enjoying the sunny weather in California?"

"The weather here has turned unexpectedly stormy, Wanda."

"How so, Mr. Solo?" a slightly British-accented male voice now spoke through the silver tube. "I understood your mission was a complete success."

"It was, sir," Napoleon relayed. "But I've just gotten a possible lead on the whereabouts of Dr. Agnes Dabree."

"Indeed, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes sir, and I'd like your permission to check it out."

"By all means, Mr. Solo. I imagine yours and Mr. Simonelli's return to New York headquarters can be delayed for a time reasonable to investigate this lead; say four or five days."

"Thank you, sir."

"Keep me apprised of your progress, Mr. Solo. Waverly out."

Solo then reassembled the pen back into… well, a pen, and moved the flowers back to the center of the table as Ginny gawked.

"You're a spy! A real this-is-vodka-not-water spy!"

Napoleon was saved the necessity of an immediate response as the server arrived with their food and drinks. Ginny fidgeted while the fare was laid out on the table before them. She wanted the damn waiter gone so she could continue this conversation with Napoleon. At last the server, sniffing once at Ginny's apparent lack of good manners with all that bodily squirming, finished his task and left the vicinity of the table.

"You _are_ a spy, aren't you?" Ginny demanded to be told.

"I told you, Ginny; it's better for you to know as little as possible. Now eat up because I want you then to take me to where you saw Nurse …uh…" Napoleon didn't think it wise to mention Nurse Flostone by name.

"Nurse Ratched and twisted-head cronk?"

Napoleon smirked. "Yes."

"At your service, Mr. Bond," Ginny teasingly acquiesced.

"Don't, Ginny," pleaded Solo with a slight shake of his head. "I'd rather you just kept me in the guise of Sir Lancelot."

Ginny tilted her head at him. "That won't be hard," she agreed to the precaution. "After all, you are a knight-errant like Lancelot, you are the handsome hunk he was said to be, you have the charm with ladies he surely had to captivate Guinevere, and Lancelot was distinctive and French while you do have that distinctive French first name."

At that sprightly reasoning Napoleon could not help but laugh.

* * *

><p>Napoleon took the precaution of contacting Tony via communicator and asking him to meet up with him and Ginny at a street location near Buena Vista Park that she provided.<p>

"You saw her coming out of the park?" asked Tony, seeking to confirm the information Ginny had already provided the two agents.

Ginny nodded. "The duo of flashes I beaded an eye on her, it was an out-of-the-throng materialization from stilted nature here. Initial instant it was just sort of a 'can't I badge her' head-swing, but for the ultimate stretch I craned my neck for a trustier peep."

Tony turned to Napoleon with a grin. "Hope you understood all of that because I'm not positive I did."

"I'm getting the hang of her jibber-jabber," Napoleon assured his temporary partner with a small chuckle. "And both times the earth-eyed halo-head was accompanied by the same older woman?" he addressed the question to Ginny.

"Yes, same twisted-head cronk who gave me nerve quakes," supplied Ginny. "And do register, my fine cavalier, that I make the score as neither a jibber nor a jabber. Straight from that under-the-wool holster of yours, I am just not into gliding on the waves or perforating pulp."

"Yes, really Napoleon, you should know better that to assume folks like to sail as much as you do or that they will stick a fork as eagerly into a steak as that Russian partner of yours," teased Tony.

"I stand corrected," Napoleon mock apologized to Ginny after giving the grinning Simonelli a good-natured if somewhat disapproving squint.

"I don't see how this lead gives us much to go on," Tony returned to the seriousness of the business at hand.

"I think it might be a good idea to stake out the park for a day or two," suggested Napoleon. "See if the pair shows up here again. That could ultimately lead us to wherever the 'twisted-head cronk' has currently set up shop."

"Setting up a surveillance of the park couldn't hurt," agreed Tony.

"Did you see the pair at any particular time of day, Carrot-top?" Napoleon sought out a bit more detail.

"Around sundown, both times," Ginny provided that detail.

"I'll take first sentinel duty, Napoleon," volunteered Tony. "Just kind of wander the park and see what I can see come sunset."

Napoleon nodded his acquiescence to that plan. "Meanwhile," he forwarded as he proprietarily took hold of Ginny's elbow once more, "I'll see about getting our eagle-eyed scout back to her home troop."

Ginny determinedly moved her elbow out of Napoleon's grasp. "Lend an ear, Sir Lancelot: While I lustily relish all the chivalrous gallantry, exiting this particular plot of earth right now is not an existing vision in my crystal ball."

"Look Carrot-top, I know this all seems exciting but—"

"Excitement isn't at the top of my personal agenda right now, hunny-bunny. Well, at least not that kind of excitement," she clarified with a flirtatious wink at Napoleon. "I have a friend who is less than in ace condition. Making it solo just isn't promising for him right now, and it's just not in my soul to toss him aside like surplus gear."

"What's wrong with him?" asked Tony curiously.

"Beyond my ken," admitted Ginny. "He was all fit and studly a couple of dozen sunspins ago. Came across him in the park then and tried to chitchat per our usual, and he just stood static as a wooden Indian and was just as non-conversational. When I guided, he went with the flow, so I took him to my nesting spot. But he's stayed in wooden Indian masquerade ever since. He'll eat when I shovel it into his mouth and perch wherever I steer, yet he just stares and stares and stares." Ginger shivered. "Really bad trip I guess."

Napoleon's gaze met that of Tony.

"Could be the results of that Thrush hallucinogen we got off the streets," suggested Tony.

"Could be, but the effects of that drug made the victims chaotic, put them in an uncontrolled feral state. It did not make any of them inertly passive and silent," Napoleon spoke his doubts aloud. "I have a gut feeling, and I learned a long time ago to always trust my gut."

Tony nodded. "You going to investigate?'

"Yes. You keep to the plan, Tony, and sit watchdog at the park here. I'll go with Ginny to check out her friend with the wooden Indian complex."

"Will do, Napoleon. I'll give you a bang on the pipe if anything remotely bird-like flaps by."

* * *

><p>Ginny's current "nesting spot" was a small room in an abandoned building that was markedly dilapidated yet surprisingly clean. Solo surmised the squatters residing there had given the place a good scrub-down upon first moving in, but – with its peeling paint, cracked windows and warped doors – it still presented a rather forlorn and derelict appearance. However, Napoleon also surmised that the "free rent" was what had recommended the place to the hippie kids inhabiting it with such communal equanimity. There was no electricity, the running water was provided by an outside garden hose snaked into the tiny window of the single shared bathroom, and apparently the group cooked on an old and somewhat rusted barbecue grill located in the "backyard", a weed-overgrown vacant lot.<p>

There was nothing in Ginny's personal space within this collective environment that could honestly be labeled as furnishings. A sleeping bag was rolled up for the day in one corner of the bare room and an open suitcase revealed a small cache of folded clothing. On the windowsill a chipped plate held the stub of a fat candle and a book of matches, the apparent source of lighting during the nighttime hours. And against the wall opposite the window lay several old sofa seat cushions, a couple showing tears in the fabric that allowed the inner stuffing to peek out. Upon one of these tattered pillows sat Ginny's friend, his legs splayed out fully in front of him, his vacant gaze staring straight ahead, focusing at nothing in particular.

"Hey Romney," Ginny addressed the man as she squatted down on her haunches to be more on level with him, "I bought someone back who wanted to meet you."

Following Ginny's lead, Napoleon too squatted on his haunches near the man seated on the scruffy cushions. "Nice to meet you, Romney. My name is Napoleon."

Without altering his forward stare, Romney reached out his hands and clasped them around Napoleon's neck, squeezing hard.

"Romney, no!" shouted out Ginny as she attempted to loosen the man's grip on Napoleon.

Napoleon moved his own hands over Romney's and with surprising quickness pulled the other man's fingers from around his throat.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Romney," verbally stressed Napoleon as he laid the man's hands decisively in his lap.

Romney started to lace and unlace the fingers of his hands where they rested on his thighs, his gaze never wavering from its straight-ahead stare.

"And you said he's been like this for a little more than three weeks?" questioned Napoleon of Ginny.

Ginny nodded. "Couple of the guys here help me with him. You know with the necessaries," she added with a slight blush. "But my crystal ball is now consistently blinking the revelation that I have to discern a more fixed elucidation regarding all this."

Solo stood and again Ginny watched as he took out his pen and reconfigured it as he had done in the restaurant. "Open Channel D."

"Channel D open. How goes it, Napoleon?" spoke a female (naturally) acquaintance from the small San Francisco HQ who immediately recognized Solo's voice.

"Things are adding up, Annie, but I require some assistance with a side-bracket in the equation."

"What do you need?" asked the gal readily.

"A medical team to pick up a guy here who I suspect has had his brain operated on none too successfully by Dr. Agnes Dabree."

"Ouch!" responded the San Fran operative.

"To put it mildly."

"Give me the address, Napoleon," Annie spoke now with all efficiency. "I'll take it from there."

Napoleon provided the needed information, telling Annie to ask the hippies in residence for Ginny Naline when they arrived at the abandoned building.

"I'll squeak to the mice it's safe not to scatter when the white coats breach the hidey-hole," declared Ginny as she left the room briefly to speak with the others in her commune.

Napoleon didn't even get a chance to disassemble his communicator when it commenced its distinctive two-tone wail.

"Solo here," he responded.

"Napoleon, I spotted Dabree's blond medical assistant," Tony said straight-to-the-point.

"Nurse Flostone?" Napoleon asked for definite clarification.

"Yes, from the pictures I've seen on file of her, it's the Thrush bombshell herself. Tell me, Napoleon: how do you always manage personal contact with these enemy femme fatales as part of your assignments?"

Napoleon smiled ruefully. "I would say just luck but honestly, Tony, personal contact with the majority of them is a lot less desirable than it initially appears."

"Do tell, Mr. Casanova. Hold on a second, Napoleon."

Ginny came back into the room as Napoleon was obligingly waiting for Tony's next communiqué. Solo tapped a finger to his lips, indicating for Ginny to keep quiet.

"Napoleon, I think I may have been spotted," Tony stated in a sotto voce tone. "I've been trailing her through a lot of side streets and back alleys not unexpectedly, but she's started to repeat the circuit now."

"Not good. Keep your head down, Tony, and the homing signal on your communicator on. I'm on my way to your location." With that Solo slapped the antenna of his own communicator back into its closed position, but left the rest of the device in transmitting mode as he thrust it into his inside jacket pocket.

"You are going after your friend?" asked Ginny

Solo nodded. "He could be in real trouble and in need of backup."

"How should I engage in the meanwhile?"

"Wait for the med pickup for Romney," pronounced Napoleon without hesitation. "I'll meet up with you later, Carrot-top."

"Where?" she demanded to be told.

"Here. I'll come back here to get you and put you on that bus."

"All right," agreed Ginny, though she had plans of her own when she met back up with Napoleon and those did not involve being shipped off alone on any bus. However, she wisely kept those plans to herself for the moment.

"Good girl," placated Solo with a winning smile. He leaned down and placed a quick peck on her forehead, but Ginny reached up and took his face in her hands and guided his mouth down to hers. She then locked her lips with his in a very passionate kiss.

"Until later then, Napoleon," she assured him with a frank tone of promise.

"Yes, well, there _is_ always later, isn't there?" agreed Napoleon with a hint of amusement.

* * *

><p>Arriving at Buena Vista Park, Solo took his open communicator from his inside jacket pocket and focused on the frequency and sound level of the beeps emanating from it. The signal eventually led him to a dead-end alley. He saw no one in the immediate vicinity and that put him on his guard. Ducking low, he moved forward cautiously toward the closed-end of the street, his nerves shrieking at him the whole time about how dangerous and possibly foolhardy this course of action could prove to be. But Tony had to be under cover here somewhere as the beeping from his communicator, homing in on the beacon from Tony's similar instrument, became increasingly insistent.<p>

The distinctive cough of a silencer-equipped gun sent Napoleon diving behind a garbage dumpster where to his dismay he saw Tony's communicator pen lying open on the ground.

"We have who we believe you are looking for, Mr. Solo," Flo's voice emanated from the open end of the alley.

Napoleon peered around the dumpster to see an obviously hurt and barely conscious Simonelli pushed out through a door at the side of the alley. Behind that half-closed protective barrier a distinctive Thrush rifle pointed at the U.N.C.L.E. agent as he swayed unsteadily on his knees. Simonelli's hands were bound behind him and the lower half of his white shirt was bright red with blood.

"Unfortunately he was injured in our little confrontation, but he is alive for the moment. And he can stay that way if you surrender yourself, Mr. Solo."

Solo aimed carefully so to avoid Tony and pinged a shot off the door, which was apparently metal rather than wood. "And if I don't?" he quipped back after making his point with that bullet.

From a building window several stories above the back of the alley, two tear-gas canisters were tossed down near where Solo was crouched behind the dumpster, releasing their contents upon impact. Blinking through tear-glazed eyes, Solo was taken completely by surprise as three men wearing protective masks emerged from within the dumpster and bodily dropped down on him. Napoleon's Special was knocked from his hand as he was roughly pinned to the ground by the Thrush. He fought their hold, but they were three against one and he really had no chance.

"Then we just take you by force," Flo unnecessarily elucidated as she emerged from behind the door.

Once the fumes of the gas cleared, Dabree's alluring henchwoman sauntered toward and then around the dumpster and stared down at the still struggling Solo where he was being bodily held by the three men. Bending seductively over his forcibly prone form, she baited, "I do hope we have time for a bit of fun, Napoleon, before I must bid you forever and ever adieu." She then pushed a switch on a brooch she wore at the center of her low-cut bodice and a splash of some identified spray hit Napoleon in the face, leaving him disoriented as he desperately endeavored to cling to at least a vestige of consciousness.

"Bring them," Flo ordered and one of the goons went to the door, opened it and retrieved a large wheeled cart from inside.

The stuporous Simonelli was grabbed by a couple of muscle and tossed into the cart. Then it was wheeled over behind the dumpster and the dazed and barely conscious Napoleon, once his hands had been securely bound behind his back, was lifted and unceremoniously deposited inside as well.

Closing the lid, the Thrush pushed the cart, with its bright green lettering declaring it the property of "Tolianart Plant Nursery", before him as he followed behind Nurse Flostone.

The room in which the two U.N.C.L.E. agents found themselves, once they returned to full awareness, was uniquely barren. The walls, floor and ceiling were all made of concrete. There were no windows, though a series of recessed strip lights running around the perimeter of the ceiling provided surprisingly intense light. The hum of an air system of some kind was audibly discernible, while visually discernible were the metal ducts that apparently were part and parcel of that system. A small octagonal sink mounted under and outwardly piped to a wall-hung water tank was tucked in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner near ceiling height just the screen of an imbedded TV monitor was visible.

There were two cots in the room on which the two men currently lay, but Solo surmised those had been brought in especially for their imprisonment. Heavy iron frames supported the thin mattresses on those small beds, but there were no bedclothes of any kind. And as well there were no toilet facilities as would generally be found in cells built for the long-term containment of prisoners. There was a large metal pail near the cot closest to the wall – that on which Tony was stretched out – likely intended for slops, that probable use distinctly unappealing to Solo.

"Gut hit?" Napoleon turned toward his cell-mate and asked for confirmation.

Tony nodded shortly, obviously in pain. "Glancing rather than dead-on at least."

"Let me take a look," forwarded Solo as he rose up a bit unsteadily off his own cot and made his way over to the other where Tony had partially raised his body to a somewhat hunched position.

Neither man remembered much about how they had gotten down here or where here might be. Solo had a vague recollection of stumbling down a set of steps into what he assumed was some kind of basement, but his senses had been so hazy from whatever Flo had sprayed into his face, he couldn't even be sure of that much. He was surprised that neither his nor Tony's hands were any longer tied behind their backs, but then both men had been stripped to their underwear and perhaps it had been just too difficult for the Thrush goons to manage that while their prisoners' hands were bound behind them. There were manacles both at the head and foot of each of the bed frames, but their captors hadn't employed them… at least as of yet.

Napoleon had to admit he was still more than a little woozy and his stomach was less than placid. Still he managed to lift Tony's bloodstained tee-shirt and examine the gunshot wound on the other man's abdomen.

"Still pretty bad, Tony," admitted Napoleon. "And you've lost a lot of blood."

"Likely to lose more too."

"Lie down and let me see what I can do."

Pulling his own tee-shirt off over his head, Solo walked a bit unsteadily to the sink. He tore a swath from his undershirt and wet that under the stream from the spigot after turning on the tap. Then he returned to kneel at the side of the cot where Tony had once more laid down flat and proceeded to swipe with the moistened piece of cotton fabric at the bloodied flap of flesh on the other man's torso.

Tony winced.

"Sorry," apologized Solo as he purposefully attempted then to lighten his touch. His hands weren't fully cooperating with him yet, another side effect of the unknown spray.

"It's just the wet cloth is cold," lied the other agent through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, sorry about that too."

Once he got the wound as clean as he thought possible under current conditions, Solo wrapped the larger portion of his torn-apart undershirt tightly around Simonelli's lower stomach, shifting the other man gently from one side to the other to do so. Napoleon hoped the bandage would successfully staunch the slow but steadily continuing stream of blood, but frankly doubted it would be truly sufficient for the purpose. Tony was in definite need of real medical attention: the sooner, the better.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Solo. Ministering with tender care to your new partner?" came the voice of Dr. Agnes Dabree.

Both men set their eyes on the monitor that had activated at some point and now showed the distinctly unwelcome visage of the "good" doctor.

"I am glad to see," she continued, "that your bad experience with your previous partner has not essentially changed your compassionate nature."

"Shut your mouth, Dabree," pronounced Solo tersely.

"A bit testy, aren't we? I suppose that is to be expected under the circumstances. However, I have good humor enough for both of us at the moment. You see, though Mr. Kuryakin did make a point that – even letting you escape as he bargained – I would certainly be free to recapture you in the future, I don't think he could ever have imagined how prophetic that sly statement would prove to be."

"I told you to shut up!" Napoleon declared emphatically through clenched teeth as he rose up off his knees and stood 'confronting' the image in the monitor. His fingers were clenched tight into the palms of his hands as his arms hung stiffly at his sides, and he was all but visibly vibrating with anger.

"Steady on, Napoleon," counseled Tony, who was alarmed by the emotional reaction this Thrush was producing in the usually laid-back Solo.

"What's the matter, Mr. Solo? Don't like me bringing up the subject of Mr. Kuryakin? I will agree he is an irritating fellow. Still, I was pleased he had no qualms about bartering with me: your life for the price of the partnership between you two. I must admit I was intrigued as it wasn't a deal that is generally brokered, is it?"

"You're a lying cretin, Dabree!"

"Language, Mr. Solo," tutted Dabree. "I know you have better manners than that.

"I suppose you should be flattered that your continued life did mean something to Mr. Kuryakin, though apparently your continued partnership and friendship did not."

"Napoleon, she's baiting you. Don't let her get the rise she wants," Tony inserted a cooler head into the extraordinary war of words going on between the other agent and the image on the monitor.

"I know Illya haggled with you to save my life," admitted Napoleon almost with disdain. "You told him you would use your brain machine on me if he didn't comply with your sadistic desire to voyeuristically watch him torture me."

"It was Mr. Kuryakin who seemed sadistic there, Mr. Solo. After all, he did enjoy himself, didn't he?"

The sharp emotional thrust Napoleon had taken to the heart when Illya had first confessed after The Gurnius Affair that he had uncomfortably found he somehow enjoyed torturing his partner was visibly exposed in the agonized look in the hazel eyes. Wound up too tightly to remain still, Napoleon began to pace back-and-forth in the limited area between the two cots.

"He didn't enjoy you using him like that!"

"That isn't what I meant, Mr. Solo, and well you know it."

"No, I don't know it!" hedged the frustrated Napoleon. "But I do know only too well that you are a vicious, crazed lunatic. A twisted-head cronk, as a friend of mine aptly described you."

"But it's your partner – or rather ex-partner – who really riles you, isn't it, Mr. Solo? You attack me with your words, all the time most fervently desiring to assault Mr. Kuryakin in a much more… visceral way."

"Bullshit!" Napoleon let loose with the uncharacteristic vulgarity, making Tony all too aware of how out of control the other man truly was.

"He haggled – as you phrase it – for your escape," Dabree pressed her advantage, "asking only he be allowed to aid in that. Then he would, he promised – a promise I was always wise enough to know was a ruse – let me 'recapture' him. I anticipated his duplicity, seeing it clearly from the beginning as the ploy it was to achieve his own escape. I was ready for his attempt to cheat me of my fair share of the deal. However, there was an unexpected wrench thrown into the mechanics of my plan. For you still did come back for him in the end, didn't you? Despite everything. Such an open heart, Mr. Solo: It's no wonder he could pierce it thoroughly with the sharp Siberian ice that runs so steadily through his Soviet veins."

"Damn you, Dabree! Damn you to hell! You are too foul to even be allowed to breathe the same air as the rest of humanity!"

Shaking with rage, hurt, and confusion, Napoleon needed to channel all that emotion someplace. Grabbing the thankfully yet empty metal slop pail, he flung it like a missile toward the monitor. The glass screen shattered on impact, the image mercifully removed.

A squad of Thrush guards, six in all, rushed into the room. Four of them physically subdued the violently scuffling Solo, while two others kept rifles aimed at Simonelli's head and heart to prevent him from trying to aid his fellow agent. Both men were forced roughly down flat on the cots and their wrists and ankles manacled to the frames of the beds.

Solo was cursing up a blue streak. Tony had never seen the man react so… wildly, without an ounce of self-control. Whatever had happened with him and Kuryakin and Dabree, it was something that had deeply affected Napoleon. And Tony had the distinct feeling that Dabree had more than known such was the case, and was currently in her hidey-hole literally crowing about having "deconstructed" not only the Solo/Kuryakin partnership but the North American U.N.C.L.E. CEA's ultimate weapon of composure under duress as well.

* * *

><p>Ginny Naline glumly re-entered her barren room in the dilapidated building that housed the communal group with which she currently shared living arrangements. Despite all the others in that old house, she felt uniquely alone. The U.N.C.L.E. med team had arrived and taken Romney in hand a good many hours ago. She had then continued to solitarily wait for the return of her handsome "Sir Lancelot". But it was long after midnight now and he hadn't come back. That worried Ginny for she had no doubt whatsoever he would have kept his word to her had he been so able.<p>

Last time she had unwittingly left Napoleon to his enemies. She didn't intend to repeat that mistake this time. As the saying went: "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Yet she had no idea where Solo might actually be, not even a physical hint as before with regard to who might have spirited him away.

She had stayed hours upon hours in her room… waiting. And then she had gone out late to wander Buena Vista Park, seeking any possible clue and finding none. In all honesty, she wasn't even sure what she was looking for.

Now back in her "nesting spot", she plopped down upon the old battered sofa cushions on the floor and pondered what to do next. Should she contact the police? But what could she say to them? "Hey, there is this really nice spy who I believe is missing and in trouble." That would go over well, especially from one of the hippie community here in Haight-Ashbury that local law enforcement considered a nuisance. They would probably conclude she was "high" and shoo her off.

Yet she wasn't willing to let this just blow past her as she had the last time. She would figure out something. She had to.

She crawled off the cushions toward her sleeping bag and halfheartedly unrolled it. She decided upon catching a few hours rest and then searching the park again at first light. Maybe she might be able to discern something in daylight she hadn't been able to in the dark of night. She didn't like that this plan provided only a tenuous hope, but that was better than no hope at all.

* * *

><p>With no window to provide any hint whether it was day or night, Tony Simonelli could only surmise at how much time had passed since the guards had cuffed him and Napoleon Solo to their respective beds. Yet he knew without doubt that passage of time was significant. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and he hurt. Oh God, how he hurt.<p>

The guards had not returned, nor had Dabree herself or her assistant Nurse Flostone made any physical appearance in the cell. Napoleon had been basically silent since the guards' departure except to ask every hour of so how Tony was feeling. Tony kept his tone as light as he could when he replied to that inevitable question, but he knew he was in real trouble physically and in his mind's eye he saw the shadow of death hovering all too near him.

He didn't want to think about that, so he decided he would get Napoleon to talk. In truth it was all either of them could do at the moment anyway.

"You going to tell me what happened?" he initiated the conversation.

"You were here," responded Solo acerbically.

"I don't mean today… or maybe yesterday now… can't be sure of that. I mean whatever happened before… with your partner."

Napoleon was silent for a good two minutes before he noted, "You heard what she said."

"Since when should I start believing a Thrush's version of anything?"

"She wasn't lying."

"Maybe not. But she wasn't exactly putting the facts in proper perspective either."

"Is there a proper perspective from which to view the mental image of your partner enjoying torturing you?"

Tony shifted his weight a bit, trying to get into a more comfortable position.

"You hurting?" asked Napoleon anxiously.

"God, Napoleon, I was shot in the stomach. Of course I'm hurting. That's to be expected. What I didn't expect was you losing control the way you did with Dabree."

"Sorry," Napoleon offered no more than a one-word apology without any further explanation.

Tony bit his lip, partly in pain and partly in consternation. Damn! he was the one with the gut perforated by a hunk of lead and yet it was Solo who needed comforting. How in the hell did things always work out other than the norm for U.N.C.L.E. agents?

"So you believed Dabree when she intimated that Illya enjoyed torturing you?" Tony pressed Napoleon on this particular point.

"I didn't have to believe her; I only have to believe what Illya himself told me."

"And he admitted to enjoying torturing you?"

"Yes, at least the first time. I didn't ask him particularly about this last time. It didn't seem… prudent somehow after his previous admission."

"It happened more than once?" questioned Tony in some disbelief.

"Yes," Solo again offered only a one-word answer.

Tony ruminated on this for a bit and then began, "Look Napoleon, I don't know the details—"

"No, you don't," agreed the other man rather tersely.

"Still," pressed Simonelli, "you _that _certain he wasn't just… you know, acting a necessary part?"

"Oh, he was acting a part all right," spat out Solo rather acidly. "And apparently some aspects of that part appealed to him much more than he expected. A fact for which he was most heartily contrite, but which was reality nonetheless."

Simonelli suppressed a groan and shuddered as a particularly sharp pain stabbed through his injured stomach.

"Can I ask," Tony subsequently queried in a somewhat shaky voice, "was it a difficult part for him to play?"

Noting the shakiness of the other man's tone, Napoleon stated bluntly, "Let's forget about all that. How are you doing, Tony? Really?"

"I prefer to concentrate on things other than my own rather abysmal condition at the moment, Napoleon, so answer my question: Was it a difficult part for your partner to play?"

Napoleon's eyes focused on Tony's profile on the cot some ten or twelve feet to his right. The man was obviously in agony from that belly gash and it was Solo's fault they were both now manacled to the beds. Thus it was also Solo's fault that he could do nothing more to ease Simonelli's suffering than keep the man's mind occupied elsewhere. Under the circumstances that the subject matter of the conversation between them was emotionally painful for Napoleon was a minor inconvenience for him to bear in recompense for his previous explosion of temper that had brought the Thrush guards so harshly down on them.

"Yes, it was a very difficult part for him to play," he conceded to Tony. "He had to take on the identity of a Nazi torturer."

"Dear God! A Russian having to do that?"

"Ukrainian technically. I have even considered the possibility his bewildering relish for torturing me was just the result of Communist propaganda bred into him bubbling up unbidden from the depths of his subconscious," Napoleon spoke with obvious bitterness. Yet whether that bitterness stemmed in the main from the prospect that Illya might be secretly infected with such sentiments, or more from an inner distaste for any form of government that might employ such tactics, probably even Napoleon couldn't himself determine. "You know: a suggestion ingrained since childhood on how a good Soviet should treat enemy Americans."

"Considering what U.N.C.L.E. asked the guy to pretend to be, don't you think you should cut him some slack?"

Napoleon fidgeted. "I was perfectly willing to cut him some slack. I told him it was okay after that first time."

"You told him it was okay, but actually was it? Inside I mean?"

With a mighty sigh Solo confessed, "I'm not sure. I honestly thought so, but then it all came back to the fore with Dabree insisting he… repeat the performance, as it were. And beyond that he… Well, as Dabree said: perhaps he thought our partnership a small price to pay for escape."

"Or for your life."

"That sounds all noble and self-sacrificing, Tony, but it isn't that simple."

Simonelli's breath hitched audibly as he valiantly fought through another wave of pain. Napoleon eyed him with increased concern.

"Nothing is ever simple, Napoleon," Tony wheezed out. _"Not even death,"_ he thought solemnly to himself. "Christ," he verbally assailed Solo, "you know _that_ surely after all these years with U.N.C.L.E.?"

"What's between Illya and me has always been simple," stated Napoleon with more than a bit of defensiveness in his tone. "Trust: as simple as can be."

"Let me ask you a hypothetical question," Tony posed after several minutes of quiet where he collected his thoughts as well as his mental resilience over the unrelenting pain.

Solo laughed a short and rather uneasy laugh. "Why not? Hypothesis of a maybe is better than trepidation of a will-be."

"If a situation arose where of necessity you had to place yourself blindly and utterly in the power of one person, no explanations as to why or how or discussions as to possible alternatives, who would that person be?"

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon pronounced softly without as much as a moment of hesitation.

"Then I think maybe you are going through the phases of adjusting to the permanent loss of something that might yet be recovered whole and well, if rather battered by the vagaries of life. Especially our kind of life."

"Explain that please," asked a somewhat befuddled Solo.

"Look Napoleon," expounded Tony as he purposely concentrated on his own uneven breathing rather than the insistent throbbing of his tightly bound yet still gore-dribbling abdomen, "when my partner was killed, after the initial shock wore off, I found myself surprisingly angry.

"Angry at Julio for somehow not dodging that bullet;" he recounted, for the first time since his transfer to New York mentioning his dead partner by name, "angry at myself for not being there to shield him from the shot; angry at U.N.C.L.E. for not getting backup to us sooner; angry at Thrush for being the bastards they predictably are. Hell, I was even angry at my confiscated communicator for not somehow magically equipping itself to send out a homing signal.

"Yet only when the anger had faded did I allow myself to fully mourn and accept the permanent loss of Julio.

"Now it just seems to me that maybe you have been going through those same phases of loss, starting with the shock about what happened that allowed you – in a completely non-registering way – to tell Illya it was all fine. Yet how could it be without you both consciously coming to terms with any of it? And now the anger has crept in to replace the shock."

"But there is no loss to mourn, Tony."

"Isn't there?"

Napoleon stated quite emphatically, "Illya is _not_ dead."

"No, he isn't, but it seems as though you are anticipating that the partnership will be."

"I… I don't want that."

"Then stop the mourning and start the healing."

Solo was silent for a long time before murmuring quietly, "Maybe I'm not ready."

"And there is always later?" baited Tony, unknowingly using the very words Napoleon had playfully spoken to Ginny. "But there isn't, Napoleon. That's the hardest part of living beyond someone or something important to you: finding out that later isn't always there."

Solo didn't have a ready response to that. He was no stranger to loss, yet somehow this seemed different. And perhaps Tony had a point. Perhaps what was happening was that he had begun to mourn the loss of his partnership – hell, of his friendship – with Illya. There was no one closer to him than the Russian. The man was like a brother, more than a brother. He didn't know why or how they had become so close: they were such different personalities. But there was something very real and right and internally reinforcing between them. He couldn't deny that, even now.

"You should try and get some rest, Tony," was the only comment Solo made at the moment though.

"Try is likely to be the operative word," acknowledged Simonelli with a small snort of discomfort. He knew the subject was now closed between him and Solo and he would get the man to open up no more than he had. And perhaps that was even a good thing because right at this moment both he and the other agent needed to focus on a way out of their current predicament. Napoleon would have to himself deal with any situation beyond that most urgent one in the proverbial (and ever uncertain) realm of 'later'.

* * *

><p>Dejectedly Ginny took a seat on a bench. She had been searching the park for hours today, hoping against hope that daylight would reveal something night-darkness couldn't. But she was no closer to finding any clue that might help her in locating Napoleon. She was tired and scared, not only for him but for herself as well. What if his enemies had seen her with him? What if they figured out she was the one who told him about seeing Lady Macbeth and the old witch around Buena Vista Park? What if they were looking to abscond with her now too? Or simply bump her off? Honestly, who in this city would care about the disappearance or murder of just another of those homeless hippies?<p>

Taking a shaky breath Ginny turned to look around once more. Her eyes for some reason gravitated toward an old derelict seated on a bench not far from the one on which she sat. At first she was unsure why her gaze centered on the bum, but then her peripheral vision caught again what it must have the moment before: the brilliant setting sun glinting off a slim silver tube in the old guy's hand. He was turning it round and round, examining it from every angle, his face set in concentration.

"Excuse me," Ginny interrupted the bum's train of thought, causing him to start physically as he glanced up at the young woman who now stood before him. "Can I ask where you got that?'

"I didn't steal it!" he protested emphatically as he clutched the object close to his chest.

"I'm sure you didn't," placated Ginny, herself a bit nervous since for all she knew this derelict could actually be one of 'them' in disguise. "It's just rather pretty, so I wondered where maybe I might get one of my own."

The bum grinned, showing a full set of much yellowed teeth. "Is pretty, ain't it?" He flipped the pen – that Ginny noted had its cylindrical grid piece set into the point tip at the moment – slightly toward her. "It ain't for sale nowhere I know of though."

"It isn't?"

The bum shook his head decisively, "I found this 'un."

"Where?"

"It's mine!" the vagrant burst out in sudden agitation. "I found it by a dumpster in an alley, so somebody throwed it out. Finders' is keepers', and I intend on keepin' it," he furthered as he once more clutched the communicator protectively against his chest. "I ain't owned nothin' so pretty for ever so long, though it does make funny noises that woke me up afore-times this mornin'," he added with a little sigh.

"What kind of noises?" inquired Ginny.

"Like a kind of two-tone siren or sumthin'."

"Oh?"

The man nodded solemnly. "Done it a quite a few times now. Been trying to figger out how to shut that off. It's annoyin'."

"Maybe I can help," Ginny offered. "I'm good with gadgets," she lied smoothly.

The derelict gazed at her speculatively for a long moment. "You ain't gonna run off with it, is ya?"

Ginny solemnly shook her head. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she pledged as she made the prerequisite gesture of x'ing with her finger over the left side of her chest. _"Or rather hope not to die,"_ her mind silently appended its own determination as she sat down beside the old guy on the bench.

The bum stared at her a minute or so longer and then decided with childish ease that he could trust her and handed her the pen.

Running on her memory of the two times she had seen Solo activate the instrument, Ginny carefully slid down the antenna from the bottom of the communicator and turned it slowly.

"Hey, don't break it!" cautioned the derelict.

"No, I won't," promised Ginny. She drew another shaky breath and closed her eyes for a second or two, reaching back in her mind for what Solo had said to get a response from the device after setting it up. "Open Channel D?" she spoke in a questioning manner into the grid-top.

"Channel D open," responded a female voice Ginny had no way of knowing from where.

The bum's eyes all but popped out of his head. "I'll be damned!"

"Who is this?" inquired the voice emanating from the pen.

"Listen, I don't know who you are either, lady, so I'll just tell you I'm a friend of Napoleon Solo's."

"What kind of friend?" prompted the unknown female suspiciously.

"The kind that doesn't want him bumped off, or me either for that matter."

"Oh?" was the only response that garnered.

"I'm in San Francisco and I think Sir Lancelot – I mean Napoleon – has been snatched again for nefarious purposes, if your get my drift."

"By who?"

"How should I know?" Ginny replied in obvious frustration. "Don't you spy types keep track of who in Hades you're cavorting with? I think I need to be speak with someone with more occupied headspace than your 'for rent' brain takes in."

"I'm afraid—"

"Waverly," Ginny blurted out as the name of the man Napoleon had asked for in his first 'pen conversation' came back to her. "I want to speak with Mr. Waverly in New York."

"Mr. Waverly is a very busy man."

"And I'm an itinerant nobody who is probably tossing the crumbs of her existence to a flock of migrating birds by even chirping to you about Napoleon being pulled out of the hand and into the bush! So let me talk to Mr. Waverly!"

"That's telling the uppity bitch," put in the bum with a toothy grin. "We itinerant nobodies deserve respect too!" he added as he pumped his fist high in the air.

"Let me see what I can do," spoke the female haughtily, "miss," she added the polite address with obvious reluctance.

"Do that," Ginny countered just as haughtily, "miss."

Ginny had no way of knowing her casual comment about "tossing the crumbs of her existence to a flock of migrating birds" is what actually led to the San Francisco operative deciding to put the communiqué through to New York HQ. She suspected that was code indicating information regarding a Thrush operation of which she was herself just not of a level to be privy. In New York, the communications folks forwarded the pertinent data to Alexander Waverly who considered it more than possible that Mr. Solo was making use of an innocent to get a message to U.N.C.L.E. Thus he took over the call.

"Waverly here," spoke the British-accented male voice Ginny audibly recognized from Solo's transmission at the restaurant a few days ago. "And you are, miss?"

"My name is Ginny – actually Virginia Naline," she explained hastily. "I was the bell that tolled for Napoleon about an off-tone clacker sounding in the cluster of Lady Macbeth and the twisted-head cronk."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, Lady Macbeth: the redhead turned blonde – or vice versa – who dropped the dark prince like Sleeping Beauty in P-town and then absconded with all his comatose gorgeousness."

"You mean Nurse Flostone?" asked Waverly after a long pause during which he toted two and two together to come up with what he hoped was four.

"She claimed nurse-hood, yes," admitted Ginny.

"So you are Mr. Solo's source for the sighting in San Francisco of her and her Thrush superior, Dr. Agnes Dabree?"

Ginny thought for a moment. "Yes, that was the name my Sir Brave and Besotting threw out over the airwaves while I honed my ears on your tête-à-tête once upon a time."

"And you are contacting us now because?"

"His striking self has been stolen again I think."

"Mr. Solo's?"

"Yes. And I'm all hyped up that he'll be impaled on walls of thorns or something equally as appalling. And maybe that wall will reach out to pierce my own trifling – yet still one-and-only – self. And how do you squeal to the cops about a mislaid spy? And what do you do to shelve the mislaying from becoming a perpetual vanishing or a hundred-year sleep?"

"Calm down, young woman, and tell me everything that happened slowly and distinctly. And please do try to make proper use of the English language in that telling."

"Geeze, Mr. Grumpy," muttered the bum seated beside Ginny.

Despite her own high level of anxiety, Ginny could not help but smirk as the bum's overheard comment received a definitely grumpy question from Waverly of "And who is that with you?"

"The man who unearthed the pen," she informed him.

"You mean a communicator?" Waverly pressed for complete accuracy.

"Whatever is this silver tube-a-ma-bob on which I'm currently talking to you."

"All right, Miss Naline, I'll have agents from our San Francisco office locate you by communicator signal while you tell me what you know. And have the man who found our device stay with you as our operatives will need to talk with him as well."

Ginny raised an eyebrow in the derelict's direction, silently inquiring if he would acquiesce to the request-cum-order.

"I'll stay if Mr. Grumpy's 'operatives' arrive with a bottle of the good stuff in hand," announced the bum as he crossed his arms firmly over his chest.

"You heard the man," Ginny acknowledged to Waverly.

"And what, pray tell, does this… umh… gentleman consider 'the good stuff'?"

"Jim Beam," the bum leaned over and shouted into the transmitter. "And don't be tryin' to pawn me off with no Old Crow. I want the real Kentucky black blend."

"You heard the man again," Ginny all but giggled into the microphone.

"Indeed," conceded Waverly. "I will personally inform the agents in question to arrive with a bottle of Jim Beam Black Label whiskey in hand."

"Bourbon. It's Kentucky _bourbon_, Mr. English-grumpy-man," corrected the derelict.

"A bottle of Jim Beam Black Label Kentucky _bourbon_," returned Waverly with pointed emphasis to match that of the vagrant.

"Good show, ol' bean!" the bum leaned into the communicator once more. "Or however you Brits say YESSSSSSSSSS."

"With that settled, could we get back to you relating your information, Miss Naline?" Waverly pressed.

Obligingly a secretly relieved Ginny began her tale. This was all out of her hands now. These people would find Napoleon. They would save the dark prince from the machinations of the wild-eyed witch and her blond familiar. She simply wouldn't permit herself at this moment of gradual easing from mental disquiet to think otherwise.

* * *

><p><em>UNCLE Headquarters, New York<em>

It was not Lisa Roger's habit to spend her lunch hour in the commissary with other members of the secretarial and administrative staff. As Waverly's personal secretary, she was on call as long as Mr. Waverly was in the building, which was most of the time. She also did not have the temperament to engage in office gossip, for in many instances, she had the real information on the Section Two agents that the rest of the women were only speculating about.

However, now she had worrisome information needing dissemination to the right person from exactly the correct channels. New York's top field team, now estranged, needed to be stimulated into reconciling; and as if by design, a situation had arisen that might do just that. Napoleon Solo was missing and Illya Kuryakin needed to know it. It needed the proper courier, one whom the suspicious Russian would not suspect anything but the truth.

Heather McNabb sat at a corner table, a book in front of her and a half-eaten sandwich pushed off to the side. Perfect: Heather was one of Napoleon's steadier female companions and Illya respected her analytical abilities. She was also not a hysteric. Lisa walked over to the table and spoke softly. "Hello, Miss McNabb. Mind if I sit down for a moment?"

Heather looked up rather abruptly, startled. "Oh, Miss Rogers. Sure," she said cautiously. "I'm surprised to see you here."

The two women were not friends, but they had a mutual respect for the other's job within UNCLE as well as a lack of desire to be in the other's position. Lisa loved being close to the seat of power, with all its perks and responsibilities. Heather liked the ability to have a social life. The green-eyed brunette smiled and sat adjacent to the auburn-tressed beauty. "Mr. Waverly asked me to pass along some information he'd like to see it reach the proper channels."

"Something official?" Heather asked curiously, thought she suspected that was not the case. If it was, Lisa or Mr. Waverly himself, would be doing it.

"You'll understand when you see the message." Lisa slipped a folded piece of paper across the table, which Heather stuck into the pages of her book like a bookmark. "As soon as possible. And keep it to yourself."

"Absolutely, Miss Rogers. I'll get to it right away." Heather closed her book, picked up her glass of iced tea and sauntered from the room as if nothing was amiss.

Five minutes later, Lisa Rogers did the same.

Heather went to her console and set the communications channel to D. She pulled the slip of paper from her book and scanned its contents. For a moment, she was stunned, both at the message and the manner in which it had come to her. While the rumors had been circulating for the last three months about the turmoil in the Solo/Kuryakin partnership, with an upswing in speculation for the last six weeks, Heather had remained confident, knowing both men involved.

_Solo is missing_: just three words, but she wondered how true the statement actually was. She knew Kuryakin would drop everything and be on the next plane. But if he returned to find out that he'd been duped, things would be much worse. But it also wasn't Mr. Waverly's style to play games like this to achieve his purposes. Heather decided the message had to be genuine, and to call in the partner, the situation had to be serious as well.

Berlin was five hours later than New York (Germany did not convert to Daylight Savings Time in 1967: .com/worldclock/). She would probably be catching Illya at dinnertime, but she felt confident that she wouldn't be interrupting him. Heather opened Channel D and placed the call.

Almost immediately, the softly accented voice answered as he always did: "Kuryakin here."

"Hello, Mr. Kuryakin," Heather began in preface. How does one tell someone else their partner is missing? "How are things in Berlin?"

There was a moment of silence; then Illya said in puzzlement, "Heather?"

"Of course it's me," Heather replied. "Have you been away so long you've forgotten the sound of my voice?"

There was another agonizing silence. "What's wrong?" Kuryakin said urgently.

There was no other way to say it. "Napoleon is missing." Again, the conversation hung in dead air. Was he struggling for control? "Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Where?" One word, sharp and succinct.

"San Francisco."

This time, there was no hesitation. "I'll be on the next overseas flight. Please contact the San Francisco office for transportation from the airport and I want a full briefing on my arrival. Put Waverly's name on it if you have to."

"Right away, Mr. Kuryakin." A breath. "Illya—?"

The answer was softly reassuring, but firm. "I'll find him, Heather. Kuryakin, out."

* * *

><p><em>Dr. Dabree's Bunker, somewhere in San Francisco<em>

Time seemed at a standstill for Napoleon Solo. He couldn't even accurately count the number of hours… or more likely days... he and Tony Simonelli had been left shackled and untended here in this barren concrete bunker. Thirst was becoming a real issue, and he knew this particular trial had to be even worse for Tony as the other man had lost so much blood.

Napoleon's stomach grumbled at its emptiness, and he was patently uncomfortable not only from the nearly stationary position the manacles enforced upon his body but from the feel and smell of his own waste. He had tried to loosen the shackles by pulling and jerking on them as much as he could, but he hadn't had any luck. His wrists and ankles were now scraped and sore from those myriad attempts, and he had to admit he was finding it difficult to summon the physical energy to keep trying this tack for possible escape.

Tony meanwhile lapsed in-and-out of consciousness. When the man was awake, Napoleon tried to keep him focused by talking about everything and anything. Whatever subject popped into his head, no matter how ludicrous, was fair game. The only thing that wasn't such fair game, that wasn't a subject broached again, was any further discussion regarding Illya Kuryakin.

Solo was losing his voice now though, and he didn't know how much longer he would be able to utilize this strategy of continual chatter to keep Simonelli lucid and mentally connected to what was happening around him. And when he absolutely couldn't anymore, would Tony just slip away from the world through a lonely tunnel of nightmares and confusion?

There had to be a way out. The optimist in Napoleon simply refused to believe the end of this desperate situation was etched in stone. He would find some way out of this, for both himself and Tony.

The door to the room opened and Napoleon for a moment thought he might be hallucinating the occurrence. But then the voice of Agnes Dabree cut through his brief befuddlement.

"It smells like an open latrine in here!"

The doctor was flanked by her ever-loyal assistant Nurse Flostone and four very burly Thrush musclemen.

"Sorry, my friend and I weren't expecting company," spoke Solo with as much of his usual jaunty manner as possible, "and you know how bachelors can be."

Waving her hand in front of her nose, Dabree mused, "Did you know this room was once used as an isolation unit for plants with exotic diseases? To keep the infection from spreading to the greenhouse above. That is why there is a separate air circulation unit, a fact for which I am eternally grateful as it has kept the rest of my compound free from the stench of ripening U.N.C.L.E. agents."

Napoleon did register the fact he and Simonelli was seemingly imprisoned in or under a greenhouse, but he didn't see how that knowledge did him any particular good under current circumstances.

"The gratitude runs both ways," Napoleon bantered. "Tony and I consider ourselves extremely fortunate the separate circulation system has kept the two of us from having to share air fouled by fetid Thrush breath."

"Still as arrogant as ever, aren't you, Mr. Solo?" Dabree squinted at her adversary in open displeasure. "There is as well, you know, a separate water tank for this room. The water is minimally irradiated to prevent cross-contamination between various diseased plant species, but is quite safe enough to drink. Oh I forget," she then gleefully baited him, "neither you nor your partner have access to that liquid resource at the moment."

Napoleon unconsciously wet his dry lips with his tongue, that tongue having but little moisture to share. Refreshing, revitalizing, life-giving water: so close and yet so out of reach. This was torture of the cruelest sort. _"Of the Thrush sort,"_ Solo mentally reminded himself.

"I hear tell irradiation is bad for the insides anyway," Solo retreated behind the cover of blasé verbal repartee.

"While dehydration can at least guarantee your body stays svelte if not strong," retorted Dabree, "or even alive.

"But I have not come here to indulge in such trifling topics of conversation, Mr. Solo, stimulating as they might be," the doctor then changed the tenor of her voice.

"No?"

"No. You see, it has come to my assiduous attention that my current residence in this fair city has come to your organization's annoying attention."

"Napoleon, hear that?" rasped out Tony, roused to a more coherent state by Dabree's words. "They'll come for us now."

"Are you as much an optimist as Mr. Solo?" Dabree questioned Simonelli. "My sources confirm your people haven't a clue about my setup here. Still, I think it far more prudent to vacate these premises as who knows what inkling any careless member of my staff might unwittingly provide the enemy."

"And what about us?" demanded Napoleon.

Dabree shrugged. "I could just shoot you both and put you out of your misery, I suppose."

"But that isn't the Thrush way," Napoleon anticipated her decision.

"No, it isn't. Not for a man like you, Mr. Solo, who has confounded Thrush's plans at every turn for far too many years. And you have cost me much personally as well: my trusted bodyguard David, my useful colleague Dr. Elmont, and the first fully functional prototype of my brain machine. Not to mention the pain of my long recovery from the fall in that elevator shaft of which you were the cause. Why then should I grant you the mercy of an easy death? I want my pound of flesh, Mr. Solo, and this time I will have it as there is no ever-loyal Mr. Kuryakin to interfere."

"How fortunate for you," countered Napoleon.

"I did, in this case, make my own good fortune, Mr. Solo," insisted Dabree, "when I accepted Mr. Kuryakin's bargain that led to the breakdown of your partnership with him. However, as much as I would like to extend that good fortune to doing all myself with regard to killing you, I freely admit I don't have the time to dally at present. Thus your blasted organization has insured my revenge will be less personally gratifying, but I swear it will be no less intensely satisfying for that. You see, I've decided on the easiest and yet the most callous of fates for you and your new partner. I am simply going to leave you both to your own devices here."

"You stink, lady!" Tony responded as vehemently as he could at present.

"On the contrary… Mr. Simonelli is it? On the contrary," Dabree repeated confidently, "it is you who currently stink. The two of you reek to high heaven and I can no longer stomach the odor. So I will leave the details of all final dealings with you in the capable hands of my most talented Flo," Dabree indicated with a nod of her head the statuesque blond beauty next to her. "_Per il Diavolo con te_ (To the Devil with you), Mr. Solo, for I trust we will never meet again on this earth."

With that Dabree strolled out of the room, once more waving her hand in front of her nose.

"Hey, she knows you speak Italian," commented Tony somewhat incongruously as his mind was currently flicking in-and-out of comprehending the direness of their situation.

"Yeah, she has come to know way too much about me," conceded Solo with unconcealed discomfit.

Flo came and knelt beside Napoleon's cot, pushing back his errant forelock with a lingering hand. "You really are rather unpleasantly redolent at the moment, Napoleon."

"I wasn't given the opportunity to freshen up before your arrival."

Flo smiled almost gently at him. "Please believe me when I say I am sorry for what I have to do now. But I am Thrush, you understand, and you are U.N.C.L.E., and thus must be dealt with accordingly."

"Whatever," Napoleon casually dismissed her apology. "My grandfather always told me it was ungentlemanly to show impatience with a woman. So just get on with it before all this waiting results in my being unable to keep my irritation in polite check."

Flo nodded to the four Thrush guards and they came toward the cots, two toward Tony's and two toward Napoleon's. One man from the each pair removed a narrow metal implement from his belt. At first Napoleon had no idea what it was, but then he saw and understood.

"No!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon, but as I said, it's the way it has to be," Flo almost cooed. "We are well aware how resourceful you are, and we just can't take the risk of you somehow managing to get yourself free of the cuffs. The guard will be soldering the lock mechanism inside each of the manacles. It will hurt, I grant you, but I did think it a much less damaging option than a welder's torch."

"Napoleon!" Tony cried out as one of the pair of Thrush at his side held his left leg firm to the mattress while the other inserted the hot iron into the clasp of the manacle attaching him by that ankle to the bed-frame. "Oh God, help me!"

"Tony, don't struggle!" called out Napoleon, thoroughly aware of his own helplessness. "Don't move! It will burn less if they don't catch much of your exposed skin with the iron!"

"Sound advice, my lone conqueror," agreed Flo, harkening back to the initial sexual teasing that had passed between them in Provincetown. She continued petting Solo's hair with one hand as the long fingernails of her other hand brushed lightly back-and-forth across the width of Napoleon's bare chest.

"I'm not 'your lone conqueror' or anything else with regard to you!" denied Napoleon hotly. "You were able to trick me back in Provincetown because I was unrealistically imagining there could be a brief span of complete cease-and-desist from the complicated cloak-and-dagger of my life. But I don't have any such impractical delusions at the moment. Thus I would much prefer," his anger flared further at the continued disturbingly caressing motions of her fingers upon his chest and through his hair, "you keep your hands to yourself!"

Under other circumstances he might have made an attempt to somehow capitalize on her obvious physical fascination with him. But not here and not now. Not here where he could hear Tony's agonized sobs as the Thrush guard worked on soldering shut his other ankle manacle. Not now as he was left to wonder what was delaying his own descent into a similar valley of physical torment.

"I'll forgive your cavalier disregard of my honest regret, Napoleon," Flo spoke on, "but I am a nurse by profession still. And you I don't want to suffer needlessly." That said the blonde leaned in close and kissed him on the forehead, choosing just that moment to press the activating mechanism on the brooch pinned at the décolletage of her blouse. The spray that Napoleon recalled from his previous experience hit him full in the face, stunning him and stealing from him the breadth of complete consciousness.

Flo nodded to one of the pair of Thrushmen that currently stood at the foot Napoleon's cot. "Now," she ordered him. "Do it now."

The men set quickly to work welding shut the locking device on each of Solo's manacles as the other pair of Thrush were yet finishing up with regard to those of Simonelli. Napoleon only whimpered as the white heat of the soldering iron made contact the inner metal of the cuffs, scorching the already raw flesh of each of his ankles and then each of his wrists. He was floating somewhere between reality and night-terrors, physically feeling the pain though somehow mentally disconnected from it. And all he could do was lie there and hang on to reason as best he could through that disorientation and the pain and the echo of Tony's half-suppressed screams.

* * *

><p>They'd been seeking Agnes Dabree and whatever place she might be holding Napoleon Solo and Tony Simonelli for nearly a week now with no luck. Agents Richardson and Schuster had enough experience with Thrush to seriously doubt either of the captured men was still alive. But then again, they also were both fully aware of the phenomenon known as "Solo's Luck". So perhaps there was still a chance Napoleon and Tony could yet be recovered breathing intact, but honestly they were running out of ideas as to where to look.<p>

They had of course spoken with the derelict, who had shown them where he had found the communicator. That area had also provided the only other concrete hint of Solo and Simonelli's actual encounter with a squad of Thrush: the presence on the pavement of some spatters of blood that were matched to Simonelli's type. Beyond that there was nothing to go on. Endless searches of buildings and streets in the vicinity had uncovered no further traces.

Richardson and Schuster had also chatted with Ginny Naline quiet extensively. She told them everything she remembered of her interactions with Solo and with Simonelli, but she really had very little substantive to offer. She did know that, when Tony had last contacted Napoleon by communicator, he had spoken of probably being spotted by Flostone, who he had been stalking. She recalled Tony saying the woman had begun to repeat a circuit of traversing through various side streets and back alleys, perhaps trying to shake the tail. It was this particular recollection that resulted in the two agents concentrating their search more heavily around Buena Vista Park than inside it.

They canvassed the park itself of course, but it seemed too public a place for an armed kidnapping and too open for trying to conceal any unwilling captives. Ginny spoke about seeing "R-b-B and twisted-head cronk" several times coming out of the park and thus the agents didn't ignore the venue altogether in their hunt for the Thrushes. Yet still it was a very busy free recreational area, and Ginny hadn't been able to get in touch with U.N.C.L.E. until Napoleon had been out of contact with her for some twenty-four hours. Thus any signs of Thrush activity in the park – if there ever had been any at all, as the two women could just as likely been cutting through the exposed environment to throw off suspicion as to the true location of their operation – were long since vanished under the constant flow of human traffic.

Ginny herself was, for the time being, lodged within an U.N.C.L.E. safe house, as the organization could not be certain Thrush did not know of her exchanges with Solo. The old bum had been given his prized bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Black Label bourbon and entrusted into the care of a community homeless shelter that had some unexpected support ties to U.N.C.L.E. However, at this precise moment in time neither Richardson nor Schuster could predict how much longer the search-and-rescue mission for the two New York agents would be allowed to continue. At some point even Waverly would have to concede there was no hope.

"How do you think Waverly will react to having to give up on finding Solo?" asked Richardson of his more experienced colleague.

"Outwardly, he'll just comment what a fine agent Napoleon Solo was and what a loss his passing was to the entire organization," surmised Schuster. "Inwardly? Bit tougher to gauge. He makes no qualms about spouting the 'all enforcement agents are expendable' mantra, but Solo is North American Chief of Enforcement and his right-hand."

"And likely successor to his chair in the organization, if all the rumors are to be believed."

"Not rumors really," Schuster acknowledged. "He's definitely been grooming Solo for that future position for a few years now."

Richardson was silent for a moment. "What about Kuryakin? How do you think he'll react?"

Schuster shook his head. "Hard to say. The man is something of an enigma."

"But he works well teamed with Solo. Their agenting styles mesh together like the perfectly-fitted cogs of an ultra-efficient machine."

Schuster nodded. "And the two have formed a tight bond of friendship as well, no question. I honestly don't know what U.N.C.L.E. might expect from the Russian if Solo dies, but I _do_ know I wouldn't want to be Agnes Dabree or her lapdog Flostone if he ever gets his hands on them afterwards."

Now it was Richardson who nodded his agreement. "Or us if he thinks we didn't make an all-out-effort to find his partner."

Schuster couldn't suppress a shudder at that particular thought.

"How much longer U.N.C.L.E. going to keep that pretty little hippie in protective custody?" Richardson then moved on to a related but definitely more palatable subject.

"I hear tell they are going to spirit her out of the safe house tonight. The bigwigs think she's now clear from possible Thrush curiosity."

Richardson nodded again. "Hope she winds up okay. She is rather nice, in a spunky and unconventional sort of way. Sweet-looker too," he added the last with a sly wink at his partner.

Schuster chuckled. "One of Napoleon Solo's conquests, so what did you expect?"

Richardson too chuckled at that. Everyone knew of Solo's reputation with the ladies and how he usually wound up with an attractive bit of feminine pulchritude on his arm – and in his bed – at the end of every mission.

The two men shared the in-joke for a minute or two longer before Richardson went serious once more and gave a hearty sigh. "I only met him a couple of times, but I liked the guy: Solo, I mean."

"So did I, so did I," agreed Schuster, neither man even consciously realizing how their present words encompassed the past tense with regard to the North American CEA. Subconsciously it seemed they both understood even the legendary 'Solo's Luck' could not elude Thrush-stacked odds forever.

* * *

><p><em>San Francisco International Airport Baggage claim—6 a.m.<em>

Illya Kuryakin was in an impatient mood. He'd been eighteen hours in flight or in airports, waiting to complete a connection. He was uncomfortable from sleeping in his clothes, and the airline food had left him wanting. To top it off, his transportation was late, so he was vacillating on the decision to either wait where he was expected to be, or go upstairs to the main concourse for some breakfast.

Hunger won out and Illya carried his suitcase to the staircase to the second floor. He had just applied his fork to a hot Western omelet, when the communicator in his jacket pocket began to warble. Quickly, he silenced the noise to keep attention away from himself and clandestinely manipulated the silver pen to open the connection. He had no qualms about reminding them of their tardiness and suggested they join him upstairs for coffee.

While Kuryakin ate, the two agents briefed him on the current information about his partner. By the time he was finishing the last of his coffee, he knew that Solo and another agent named Simonelli had stayed in San Francisco after helping clean out THRUSH's satrap on intelligence that Dr. Dabree had surfaced again in that city.

The mention of Dr. Dabree set Kuryakin's stomach into a wave of nausea that threatened to relieve him of his breakfast. He took a deep breath and scowled. _And that's when he went missing_, he thought with disgust. Memories of her compound months ago added a sour taste to the back of his throat, and he fought to quell the negative emotions. With Dabree, he knew time was of the essence, for the sake of the two men trapped in her maniacal snare.

"How many men do you have looking for Dabree's laboratory?" he asked in a tone that implied that it had better be a substantial number.

Despite Kuryakin's reputation for acerbity, the older agent was undaunted. "We can't spare more than a couple of agents, Mr. Kuryakin, and these guys have been scouring the target area for several days without turning up a clue."

As much as he wanted to tear into the two agents for their seeming lack of dedication, Illya realized that the orders for the search had come from higher up in the chain of command. "Then, it would seem that a pair of fresh eyes might be in order. If you would, drop me off in the target area, and inform your agents. My suitcase will appreciate a ride to headquarters."

"Don't you even want to check in at a hotel and freshen up first?"

"Amenities mean very little right now to Mr. Solo and Mr. Simonelli. If we don't find them soon, it won't matter if I've had a good night's sleep and a hot shower, or no." He stood. "It's time to go."

* * *

><p>Napoleon Solo had been transitioning in-and-out of consciousness for he knew not how long. His brain remained a bit muzzy even when he managed to keep himself awake for any length of time. His wrists and ankles throbbed and stung, his body was too hot, and thirst tormented him mercilessly. He didn't even care that he was hungry anymore; it was the thirst that was driving him nearly insane. His throat was so parched, it felt almost scalded. His tongue clung uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth and repositioning it was a painful process. Talking was beyond his current ability and even the steady flow of air in-and-out of his nose made his gullet ache.<p>

Rousing enough to recollect his current situation, Napoleon listened intently for the breathing of the man he knew to be in this room with him: Agent Tony Simonelli. The sound came to his ears mixed with little whimpers and barely audible moans. "Tony," he tried to speak in an attempt to attract the other man's attention, but even that single word came out only as a labored croak.

Napoleon closed his mouth and then his eyes. He was too weak to even try anymore. He wanted to just sink back into the oblivion of unconsciousness. Yet an inner voice – a voice that sounded to his befuddled mind eerily like that of the righteous grandfather who had been his childhood guardian – was unequivocally protesting this acceptance of defeat.

"_You have to get to Tony,"_ that voice commanded him.

"_Why? I can't do anything for him,"_ he demanded wordlessly of the voice in his head.

"_You can be there for him,"_ insisted the voice.

"_When he dies,"_ he mentally supplemented that persistent voice.

"_Would you rather he dies alone?"_

"_In the end we all die alone,"_ his brain further rationalized his inaction.

"_Listen to yourself, Napoleon! Since when did you become a quitter?"_

"_I'm tired, so tired…"_

"_No excuses! You made a choice to become an enforcement agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. In fact you are the North American Chief of Enforcement within that noble organization. And Tony Simonelli is one of the men committed to your charge in that position. You have a responsibility!"_

"_I can't. I can't. I hurt and my strength is all but completely sapped."_

"_Physical strength maybe, but what about the potency of your spirit? Your force of will?"_

"_Those are fading too."_

"_I am truly amazed at your self-centeredness, Napoleon! Tony Simonelli is much worse off than you are. He is hurting much more intensely than you. And you would just leave him to suffer alone? What would Mr. Waverly think?"_

"_He would be disappointed,"_ Napoleon frankly let his mind admit.

"_Then don't disappoint him, Agent Solo!"_

"_I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I can't do this. I just can't."_

"_Illya would be ashamed of you!"_

Hazel-brown eyes flew fully open.

"_Do you want to die knowing the man you hold dearer than a brother, the man with whom you share a connection of the soul, would be ashamed of your self-absorption in these last hours?"_

"No," whispered Napoleon aloud through tightly gritted teeth.

"_Then get to Tony! Now!"_ came the no-nonsense order from the internal voice.

Napoleon bit his bottom lip, cracking open its dried skin enough to draw to the surface a few beads of blood, blood he lapped up with a tongue that seemed much too large for his mouth. He assessed the logistics of the situation: the distance between the two cots and his current limited range of movement.

"So how do I do that?" he murmured in a husky and barely audible rasp. But the inner voice was now silent. _"Figures,"_ he thought frustratedly.

He glanced about once more. Well, he couldn't get up and walk to Tony's bedside, but maybe… He considered the possibilities. He rocked slowly from side-to-side on the cot. There was a small screech of metal. Hmmm… possibly collapsible legs. Not unlikely as these seemed like temporary setups. Though the frame was solid iron and definitely sturdy, if the legs were foldable then maybe… He rocked back-and-forth more vigorously and was rewarded with another small metal screech. It might work, _if_ (and that was a big if) he could work up enough force to tip the bed.

He would need every ounce of energy he yet possessed to overturn the cot. He didn't want to wind up with the bed right-side-up on folded legs as that would avail him nothing. He had to get the cot turned completely over so that his own body was against the floor and then… Then what? He couldn't exactly crawl with his limbs firmly secured to the headrest and footboard as they were. But there was a bit of give that would allow him to use his elbows and knees to some effect. Not crawl, but shimmy sideways on his stomach by means of drawing along his elbows and knees to the small distance they could flex. Maybe… It was all a maybe… But at the moment maybe was all he had.

He took a deep breath, his eyes watering as the forced air all but charred its way down his parched throat. _"Now or never,"_ he told himself firmly. _"You won't have the strength left to try again later."_

So he rocked his body as violently as he could from side-to-side, praying for adequate muscle and the mercy of a miracle. It took him about ten minutes of steady and exhausting motion before one of the bottom legs gave way. As he leaned his body mass as much as he could to that side, the cot teetered for instant on one top leg before crashing over onto the concrete floor.

Napoleon managed to keep his face from making full-on contact with the concrete by turning his head to the side before impact but, if he had ached before, now his entire body was seared by pain. His wrists and ankles were truly excruciating, the rough landing scraping the metal of the cuffs relentlessly across the burned flesh. His knees and elbows, that he had used to cushion his fall to some small extent, were dully throbbing. The ear that had hit the floor was bleeding. The cheek on that same side of his face was at the very least deeply bruised but had thankfully gone completely numb.

"_I'm coming, Tony,"_ he mentally promised as he began to inch his way sideways toward Tony's cot, using the limited range of his elbows and knees to slid unevenly across the floor on his stomach. His progress was agonizingly slow and the weight of the heavy metal bed-frame, under which his body labored to move, made him pant for breath. At least the concrete beneath him was smooth and cold, offering his overheated torso minimal relief, while the soiled mattress of the cot protected his back from the hardness of the iron bed-frame.

Time lost all meaning for him. The only thing on which he allowed himself to concentrate was one minuscule sideways slither at a time, never letting himself subside in this motion long enough to give in to his exhaustion. At last, after what could have been an hour or ten, he was lying on the floor near Tony's cot.

"Tony," he whispered, but he knew the man on the bed above could not hear him as he could summon no volume at all from his moisture-deprived vocal cords. And Tony couldn't see him here either, and thus the other man likely wouldn't even realize how close at hand he was. Napoleon pondered the problem and then decided on the only course of action.

"_I'm sorry, Tony,"_ he silently apologized in advance as he painstakingly maneuvered to a position where one of his manacled hands could grasp the foldable front leg of Tony's cot. Then he took another deep breath, letting the air burn through the dry membranes of his nose and fill his lungs, and pushed as hard as he could.

Solo's luck was with him as the bed on which Tony lay tilted onto its side, the downed portion facing Napoleon with the raised portion wedged snugly against the wall. The mattress at the head of Tony's cot scooted a bit askew, a portion of it resting on the floor.

"Tony?" whispered out Napoleon through rasping breaths caused by his recent exertions.

Tony's eyes fluttered open. He looked dazed at first, but then his gaze cleared as he centered his vision on Solo's face so close to his own.

"Hey Napoleon," he croaked. "_Vuoi… condividere… il mio… materasso_? (Want to share my mattress?)" he managed to get out between painful swallows that forestalled the mischievousness he wanted to express in his vocal tone.

"Quite the continental invitation," Napoleon whispered with gruffness in his own tone that yet didn't fully obscure the underlying smirk behind the words. Then he gave the other man one of his most radiant smiles as he carefully raised his head just enough to let the exposed portion of Tony's mattress slip under the side of his banged-up head.

* * *

><p>Illya stepped onto the curb along Haight St. at Buena Vista Park, found an unused phone booth and pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel A, Agent Kuryakin to Agent Schuster." Almost immediately his pen answered back and the agents set a location for a rendezvous.<p>

Fifteen minutes later, Kuryakin met the team responsible for finding his partner. They passed on what little information they had and answered the Russian agent's questions. Schuster added: "We even checked out a greenhouse on the far side of the park on a rather flimsy report about a spaced-out hippie Mr. Solo rescued and sent to medical for observation. The guy suddenly freaks and becomes violent when a nurse brought him a potted plant from home. They had to sedate the guy into oblivion before he stopped screaming."

"What was at the greenhouse?" Illya asked thoughtfully.

"Just what you'd expect: plants. It used to be a research facility years ago, but the government grant ran out and the project folded. From the outside, it looked like somebody got permission to start a small business in it. The name of the place is the Tolianart Plant Nursery."

"Did you have the name of the business checked out?"

"Yeah, research found that no business under that name had ever applied for permits to operate or had ever been registered with the city. We concluded that somebody was squatting."

"Were you actually inside this greenhouse?" Illya continued, looking to Richardson for the answer.

"Of course, we were, Mr. Kuryakin. We went through there a couple of days ago with a fine tooth comb. We couldn't find anything suspicious."

"Then you won't mind if I check it out for myself."

Schuster sighed heavily. "It's your time to waste. We've been all over this area; there's nothing."

"But this is the area where Mr. Solo and Mr. Simonelli were last seen. That itinerant found a communicator near here and supposedly Dabree has been seen coming and going out of this park. You have to be overlooking something."

"Now, wait just a minute, Mr. Kuryakin. We may not be high level agents like you and Mr. Solo, but we know how to do our jobs."

"I'm not saying you don't. However, when one has been staring at a perplexing problem for a long time, it is easy to overlook the obvious solution. I would like to add a set of fresh eyes to the investigation. I also have no problems doing this on my own if you need a break from the monotony. Now, which way is the greenhouse?"

Richardson pointed and after Kuryakin walked away from them, he looked down at the shorter, older agent. "Did you hear him? A break from the monotony? I've got a feeling we've just been insulted."

Schuster shook his head with a sigh. "Yeah, and I think he was holding back on us, just to be polite. I hope he finds something or we're going to wish THRUSH had captured us instead of his partner. "

Illya Kuryakin found the greenhouse with little trouble. He approached cautiously; alert for any unexpected activity in and around the glass structure, but aside from the normal summer insect populations, the place seemed deserted. The door was, surprisingly, unlocked and the inside was just as one would expect from a greenhouse: humid, earthy-smelling and full of green foliage. Kuryakin thought it a bit odd that the plants were well-watered, yet the grounds spoke of abandonment.

He perused the entire floor plan of the building, finding nothing more suspicious than the lack of occupancy. It was, however, enough of a mystery to warrant a second visit later to see if anything had changed. He left the building as he found it, and began a systematic reconnaissance of the park back to where he and the San Francisco agents had parted company. He found them on a bench, engaged in an extensive banquet of Chinese carryout and shop-talk. He was nearly on top of them before they acknowledged his presence.

"Want some lunch?" Richardson asked, holding up a pair of chopsticks.

"I hope you realize that I could have taken you both out before either of you was aware of my presence," Illya admonished.

"And you East Coast guys are wrapped as tight as a drumhead," Schuster replied. "We both saw you coming and recognized you from two hundred yards away. Nothing at the greenhouse, was there?"

Kuryakin accepted the chopsticks and a white carton of lo mein. "Nothing specific, except that someone has a nice crop of marijuana." He sat on the end of the bench and lifted a wad of noodles to his mouth.

Richardson grinned. "Maybe they're catering to the hippie convention. You know, 'tune in, turn on, drop out'?"

Illya looked at him with a mixture of patience and annoyance which made the younger agent try to escape into his lunch. "Perhaps. Tell me, did the plants inside the greenhouse look well-tended when you were there?"

Schuster nodded. "Sure, just what you'd expect."

"But you never saw anyone around to tend the plants."

"No, but that doesn't mean there isn't anyone."

"It seems odd that a venture like that wouldn't have someone around, especially with the doors to the greenhouse unlocked. I would think someone would want to protect their investment."

"Maybe they got wind of a police bust and scattered."

Illya took another bite of his lo mein and sat chewing, considering the puzzle of the unattended greenhouse full of thriving marijuana plants. Something niggled at him, but he couldn't bring the concern into focus. Meanwhile, he keenly felt the worry of a missing partner probably facing life-threatening danger.

* * *

><p>"Tony," Napoleon rasped painfully through the rough, swollen membranes of his throat and his cracked and bleeding lips. The man beside him had not made a coherent sound for a long time, but lay wheezing in labored breaths. "Tony! Hey, talk to me, man!" Solo croaked as loud as his condition permitted.<p>

There was a small whimpering moan. "Julio—I'm—not going—to make—it. I need—" Tony said in a forced whisper.

"You _need_ to hang on, buddy—" Napoleon interrupted, "and it's not Julio; it's Napoleon. Try to hang on just a little longer, Tony—"

"Nap—?" The name ended in a groan that was heart wrenching. "Can't—please—"

As much as he hurt, Solo knew Tony was considerably worse off. "Yes, Tony, whatever you want—"

"My con—fes—sion—hear—"

Solo was taken aback. "Tony, I can't; I'm not a Priest. Good God, far from it—"

"Don't want—to die—without—clear—"

"Okay—okay, but I can't give you absolution—"

"Don't—matter—jus—hear—"

Tears would have tracked down Napoleon's face if he had been able to produce them. "I will—Tell me, my friend—"

There was a sigh, and Tony began to speak, his voice strengthened by the ingrained ritual: "Forgive me, my Lord, Jesus Christ and Holy Mary, Mother of God,—it has been six months—since my last confession—"

In utter sorrow, Napoleon lay with his head nearly touching Tony's, while the dying man poured out his soul in penance: anger for his partner's death, the hate he had carried for so long towards those who had killed him, anger at his partner for dying, the lives he had taken, his own selfishness in seeking pleasure at the expense of others. While it seemed to Napoleon to go on almost interminably, Tony's voice faltered after a very short time. Without thinking, Napoleon answered: "May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life, _Amen_—Be at Peace, my friend." Then, he lifted his head to look at Tony. "Try to hold on a little while longer."

Tony's eyes were closed, but opened at the sound of Napoleon's voice. "Thank you—" he whispered. "It's—all right—now."

"Stay with me—" Napoleon urged, but saw that Tony had relaxed and now looked back at him with the contentment of knowing that all was well. "Tony—" And while Solo stared helplessly back at the older agent, the light in the eyes of UNCLE agent Anthony Simonelli slowly dimmed and went out. Then almost unconsciously, Napoleon began to murmur through the pain of his own parched lips:

"_God our Father, Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust. Lord, those who die still live in Your presence, their lives change but do not end. I pray in hope for this man, my brother in arms, and for all the dead known to You alone. In company with Christ, Who died and now lives, may they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all our tears are wiped away. Unite us together again in one family, to sing Your praise forever and ever. Amen—_(Catholic Prayer for the Dead)

" I'm sorry your end wasn't what you hoped it would be_. _Goodbye, Tony_—_" He finished the oratory with a moan, and then unconsciousness claimed him.

* * *

><p>Subsequent spot checks on the so-called Tolianart Plant Nursery turned up no attending personnel, However, it appeared that a large number of the plants had been harvested of their leaves, suggesting that at least one person had visited the greenhouse on probably more than one occasion. Illya decided a twenty-four hour stake-out of the greenhouse would most likely yield someone who could be questioned. Schuster and Richardson, having been stuck with canvassing the area for more days than they wished to count were less than enthusiastic with both the idea and the person suggesting it.<p>

Kuryakin was not one to trade "war stories", but took the opportunity to enlighten his fellow agents about the virtues of tenacity; recalling the time he trailed cats in the Soho district of London for nearly a week before uncovering a substantial clue, but one that ultimately foiled THRUSH's plan to obtain a device that reversed aging. ("The Bridge of Lions Affair" written by Henry Slear and Howard Rodman) Then, he announced that the stake-out would proceed, with or without their help, but if it was without, he would make a notation in his report of their decisions. He couldn't help but chuckle to himself hearing their grumbling as they left to check out a car, but when they were out of earshot, he sighed heavily and allowed the weight of his worry to dominate his body language.

The stake-out proved as fruitful as Illya hoped. At five o'clock in the morning, a tall, scrawny young man with long hair tied back in a careless ponytail, got out of a beat-up Corvair and under the dim light of dawn, trotted to the greenhouse. Kuryakin sent Schuster and Richardson after the hippie, while he checked out the car. Fifteen minutes later, the two UNCLE agents returned, a squirming man between them.

Illya scrutinized the emaciated young man who was in dire need of not only a decent meal, but a bath as well. "You seem to have found yourself a lucrative little business, haven't you?"

"I don't know nuthin' about nuthin'," the hippie replied, nervously. "An' you can't make me talk, neither."

Illya attempted to explain. "It's all right; I'm not interested in your marijuana. We're not from the police. I was hoping you could tell me if you've seen any of the people in the pictures I have, Mr.—?"

"Ain' got nuthin't'say."

Schuster and Richardson watched in fascination as Kuryakin skillfully drew out the hippie. "You look like you haven't eaten for a while. Would you like something to eat?" Illya smiled when the expression on the man's face suddenly showed less worry and more interest.

"Wha'd'y' got?"

"Mr. Richardson," Illya said. "Get one of the sandwiches in the car, if you would, please. And a can of soft drink." He continued to look into the eyes of the hippie. "How long have you been growing your plants, my friend?"

The hippie engulfed two sandwiches and a can of cola before he would answer. "Month or so."

"You have quite the green thumb. Where did you obtain the plants?"

The hippie looked around warily as if being watched. "Somebody gave me seeds. Told me t'plant'em in th'greenhouse, and take care'a'de place."

"And your payment was to be the sale of the marijuana, correct?" But the young man began to tremble in fear and would have run away if Illya hadn't caught him by the arm. "What's wrong?"

"No, don' tell her 'bout th'plants! I don' know wha' happen to them! She'll do t' me wha' she did t' Romney!"

"Romney? Is he one of your friends?" But the hippie was too terrified to answer and continued to fight his way out of Illya's grasp. The Russian agent reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photo and showed it to the nearly hysterical man. "Is this the person who did the terrible thing to Romney?"

The hippie cried out in panic and broke Illya's hold, only to be caught again by Richardson. As the younger UNCLE agent clung to the hysterical man, Illya flipped the picture for the other men to see. The subject of the photo was Dr. Agnes Dabree. The two SF agents looked at each other, then at their senior agent "What are your orders, Mr. Kuryakin?" Schuster asked respectfully.

"I want both of you to escort our friend back to our car." Kuryakin reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed Richardson a small capsule. Recognizing it as a fast acting knock-out tablet, the agent nodded in understanding. "After he's comfortable, I want a call for some back-up. We don't know what were up against, so we'll need a medical team standing by as well. I'm going to see if I can find a hidden entrance in the greenhouse. Follow me when you're finished."

"We'll be right behind you, Mr. Kuryakin." Richardson said.

The two SF agents pulled the terrified hippie with them while Illya made a beeline for the greenhouse. He pulled the door open, his gun drawn and went inside. It was quiet and dim, but this time the UNCLE agent wasn't the least bit interested in the plants, but at the flooring which consisted of an earth floor with a walkway of narrow pallets for drainage and so the occupants would not have to walk in mud. But the walkway could also hide a trap door to a lower level. He bent down and began pulling up the floor pallets and tossing them on top of the plant beds, heedless of the potential street value of the marijuana plants he was destroying.

Schuster and Richardson joined him ten minutes later, but by then Illya had the flooring torn up and had started to examine the bare earth.

"Mr. Kuryakin!" Richardson called and when the agent looked up, a shovel started arcing towards him. He caught it and gave the other agent a silent thanks. Kuryakin began to tap and scrape the earthen walkways.

As he approached the far end of the greenhouse, he suddenly straightened. "Do you smell that?"

The SF agents came to the same corner. "Smells like a dead animal's in the dirt somewhere," Richardson said.

"The odor emanates from right here," Kuryakin said with conviction. He positioned the shovel into the dirt as if to dig a hole, set his foot on the blade and pushed. There was a scratch of metal about five inches down, spurring the Russian agent to quickly clear the area revealing the metal hatch of a trap door.

Schuster reached for the handle and pulled up on the door only to back away suddenly with the other two agents as gases from below wafted up into the greenhouse.

"Oh, God! Something's definitely dead down there—" Richardson choked.

Kuryakin had descended half his height before the SF agents could move or speak. Schuster found his voice first. "Mr. Kuryakin, what do you think you're doing?"

"The source of that odor isn't going to come to us. Find a way to deal with it and follow me." He finished his descent and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose and mouth. He did not wait for the other agents to follow him.

Schuster and Richardson followed their lead agent but at a much slower pace. It was difficult to climb down a ladder one-handed. When they finally caught up with Kuryakin, he was pushing a magnatite strip into the lock of a windowless steel door. He ignited the strip with the detonator in his watch, waiting for the moment when it was extinguished to act.

Kuryakin kicked in the door and bolted into the room, though the smell turned his stomach and he could almost taste the putrefaction. First his line of sight was a cot laying on its side and an over-turned cot next to it. The source of the smell, the very dead body of a man, lay on the floor, manacled by the wrists and ankles to the head-and-footboards of the up-ended cot.

Illya rushed to the foot end of the cot, fearing the worst. The flesh was bloated from decomposition gases, and the exposed skin marbled with discoloration. The dead eyes were open and clouded over. Curiously, there was a near absence of insect larvae.

"Good God," Richardson sputtered from behind.

"It's not Napoleon," Illya announced, his voice thick with relief, but he was also confused. _Napoleon had to be here-_

"There's something under the overturned cot," agent Schuster said urgently.

With strength that could only have only come from a massive jolt of adrenalin, the small blond Russian righted the over-turned cot to reveal a dark-haired man manacled to the frame in the same manner as his dead compatriot. The wax-colored skin on the face of the motionless man face hung loosely on the skull, sunken deeply into the eye sockets. The pale lips were cracked with dried blood in the crevasses and parched mucosa peeling in white flecks of flesh.

"Napoleon—" Kuryakin whispered desperately, as he reached to place his fingers on the pulse point at the jawline. Now oblivious to the stench, he laid his ear to Napoleon's chest for confirmation of what his fingers were telling him. "He's alive—" he sighed heavily with relief. "Pulse is fast and thready." He laid his hands on either side of the unrecognizable face. "And he's burning up." A moment later, the command mode of the senior agent was back and he began to bark orders. "Get these manacles off, Richardson. Schuster, get the medical team in here. Tell them we have one dead, and one critical. And they need to bring some ice, or there will be two for the morgue."

As soon as the two other agents set to work on their tasks, Kuryakin removed his jacket and holster, pulled off his black turtleneck shirt and went to the sink on the opposite side of the room. He turned the spigot to full open, almost gasping a sigh of relief when cold water poured into the sink. He soaked his shirt in the cold water and brought it back to where Napoleon lay. Gently, he squeezed the cold water onto Solo's feverish skin. A trickle of water found its way past the cracked lips and the body reacted to the sudden influx of moisture. Hands now unfettered grabbed at the wet cloth to guide it to his mouth.

"No, stop, Napoleon—!" Illya cried, as he caught his friend's wrists. The reaction to the second-degree burns there sent the critical agent into a frenzy of delirious, croaking cries of anguish.

Kuryakin acted without thinking. He threw his arms around Napoleon's flailing torso and pulled his friend into a snug embrace, hoping that the 'swaddling' would calm Solo's hysteria. The tactic seemed to work as the writhing body slowly quieted. "You're safe, Napoleon," Illya whispered. "It's going to be all right—I'm here—"

By the time the medical team arrived, Kuryakin had Napoleon resting quietly, and was pressing his cool, water-soaked shirt gently against the hot face. For a moment, the onlookers could only stand and stare while the legendary cold-blooded Russian agent, oblivious to their stares, tenderly ministered to his partner. The blue eyes looked up, immediately re-animating the rest of the rescue team.

Illya stood up and slowly approached the dead agent, shuttering inwardly at the thought of being trapped with a decaying corpse. Suddenly, the smell, the release of emotions over finding his partner, and the realization that Napoleon was still critical and might not survive overwhelmed him and he bounded out the door to the outside. As the medical team carried Napoleon to their waiting van, they could see the legendary cold-blooded Russian leaning, doubled-over, against the far corner of the greenhouse, retching.

Kuryakin straightened as the rear doors to the van closed. "Hold that van!" he called hoarsely. "I'm coming with you." He jogged over to the van, realizing only then that he had no shirt or jacket on.

"We have an extra pair of scrubs in the back," the one medic said helpfully. "You're probably going to want to ride back there with Mr. Solo anyway."

Illya looked up, his blue eyes appreciative. "Try and stop me," he said softly as he reached for the handle to open the door.

* * *

><p>The room was identical to every other UNCLE infirmary room he had ever been in while recovering from his own injuries or like now, keeping watch over his partner, waiting for a positive sign. Illya sighed wearily; glad to finally be off his feet. The doctors labored a long time stabilizing Solo, and while Kuryakin had not been allowed to oversee their work alongside them, the staff knew not to try not coaxing him away from the windowed doors separating him from his partner. The blond Russian sat in a chair provided for him, firmly ensconced bedside, his hand on the bed by Napoleon's bandaged wrist, the index and middle fingers resting lightly on the pulse point at the base of the thumb, cautious of the burns nearby.<p>

Early in his partnership with Solo, this simple gesture from a man who normally shunned physical contact with anyone raised a few eyebrows and spawned rumors that the word partnership had more than one meaning between these two. After all, Russians were an unknown quantity to most Americans and Napoleon was known for his healthy libido. To the rumors, Solo merely laughed at his co-workers' silly speculation, or occasionally added a glib comment of his own regarding his partner. Illya just didn't care what other people thought of him as long as they realized, though Russian by birth, he was first and foremost an UNCLE agent by philosophy.

Times like these, when there was little to do but sit and wait, sorely tested his patience. With all his being, he wanted nothing more than to employ the vast resources of UNCLE to hunt down Agnes Dabree and her compatriot, Flostone and then exact the justice they so richly deserved. Instead he sat by his partner's side, taking what assurance he could from the pulse under his fingertips.

For the next three days, he sat in the same chair, in the same spot, his silent vigil interrupted only by Napoleon's moans and cries from pain, delirium or haunting dreams as his partner traveled the unsure paths towards consciousness. The doctors had given Illya no guarantees; the unknown length or severity of the high fever could have been detrimental. The only hope Illya could draw on was the consistency of _Solo's luck_, which he supposed was as good as anything else.

Illya had dozed off, his chin resting on his shoulder, when movement from the bed jolted him awake. He sat upright in his chair. "Napoleon?" he breathed, as he leaned forward. A pair of brown eyes regarded him silently, but Kuryakin could see the horror Solo had experienced in that cell reflected in their depths. "It's all right, you're safe," he reassured Napoleon softly.

The cracked lips moved. "You look terrible," the dark-haired agent rasped roughly.

Illya had to smile in spite of himself. "You haven't had a chance to look into a mirror, my friend."

Napoleon closed his eyes and shuttered at the memory of the last thing his eyes had seen before he lost consciousness. "Tony—" he murmured.

Kuryakin sighed heavily in empathy. "We've brought him home. I'm sorry, Napoleon."

"It was Dabree—"

A cold needle of anxiety cut through Illya's middle. "I know," he said with uneasiness, "but now's not the time for you to be thinking or talking about this. There'll be plenty of time to deal with her later when you've recovered."

Solo was not to be deterred, even by the pain of his raw throat. "She told me—what you did—the bargain you made with her."

Illya was not prepared to rehash past events with a man, who three days earlier, nearly died and now, could barely talk. He stood abruptly. "I'm going to get the doctor to give you something to help you sleep."

"Don't want to sleep. I want to know why—you and Dabree—you let her kill—_US._"

"Napoleon, that was never my intention. And this isn't the time to talk about this."

"So, why don't—you just—go then—" Napoleon choked as words tumbled from his lips, "—run away—just like—you did before— _That's_ why Tony died—because _you—_weren't there—!"

"You don't know what you're saying," Kuryakin said quietly, but his voice strained with the effort of keeping his own temper under control. It certainly wouldn't help Solo's condition if he became accusatory as well. "You're still being affected by what happened to you and agent Simonelli."

"I want," he croaked, "—want you to leave—"

The blond agent nodded. "Yes, I think I should. I am undoubtedly upsetting you, though I don't fully understand why. I can come back tomorrow, if you wish, but I won't sit here to argue with you."

"No more—to say—then." Solo glowered at him. "Just—go away. Don't want to—see you anymore—" He shut his eyes, turning his head away. He did not see the brief expression of wounded disbelief in the blue eyes that looked back at him before Kuryakin turned away himself and hastened to the door.

Illya paused at the door and turned back towards the man in the bed. "Very well, Napoleon. What you want can be arranged. It so happens that I've been offered a CEA position working out of the Berlin office. Perhaps, I should consider the proposal more seriously. Have a speedy recovery." The door opened and Illya disappeared behind it.

The door closed silently. "I win—" Napoleon whispered but at the same time, an aching pang of remorse caused him to wonder what demon had put those words into his mouth.

* * *

><p><strong>Act IV: "My greatest strength and my greatest weakness."<strong>

Illya, fuming from his encounter with Napoleon, punched the call button for the elevator to the upper floors of the San Francisco headquarters. He had a mind to check out of his hotel room and catch the next plane back to New York, but it reminded him too much of what he had berated Solo for and sounded too much like the running away Napoleon had accused him of doing.

While the elevator carried him to above-ground level two and the agents' floor, he tried to talk himself into the reasonable explanation for his partner's behavior; that Napoleon was reacting to his injuries, to the memory of days spent with a corpse, and his near-death by dehydration. Solo had been lucky to survive; the doctors agreed that another eight hours would have been his death. His condition warranted a slow rehydration to keep fragile tissue cells from rupturing from the influx of fluids, and it was not known if he would survive the lengthier process. It was entirely possible Napoleon was not fully rational yet.

With heavy sigh, Kuryakin found himself yielding to his gut feelings. Solo had certainly sounded rational enough. And, the Russian thought with irritation, in very much the same manner of stubborn disregard as when the roles had been reversed. The partnership seemed to be dying, just as he had said it should weeks ago on the _Pursang_. Yet Napoleon had had him convinced that the feelings he experienced while masquerading as Nexor had just been part of the charade.

Then Dabree got hold of both of them. Kuryakin shuttered inwardly in remembrance and wished again he had just applied the correct amount of torque to her ghoulish-looking head and snapped her neck before he blew up her compound. At least then, some good would have come out of the whole affair and the maniacal scientist would not have been alive to take Napoleon and Simonelli.

By the time he exited the elevators on level two, he knew what he wanted to do, though it was hardly a meaningful use of time. He turned around and went back into the elevator to the main floor, and the agents' entrance. It was a fair walk to his hotel, but he knew there would be plenty of opportunity to procure a bottle of a decent brand of vodka. He wouldn't get drunk enough to completely dampen the dismal feelings rolling around inside of him, but he would be able to count on a reasonably undisturbed sleep.

The next morning, Illya stood quietly in the hallway outside Napoleon's hospital room, listening while the doctor examined his patient. The doctor stepped out into the hall and shut the door.

"I wish I could give you a positive answer to your question, Mr. Kuryakin," he began. "Mr. Solo is making excellent progress physically, but he had a very restless night. There were a lot of bad dreams, during which he seemed to be reliving the time he spent in the cell with the dead agent."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said the name Tony quite often."

"Yes, that's the name of the dead agent he was confined with."

"And he said your name as well; in much the same tone of voice. You know, distressful."

Kuryakin nodded understandingly, but in truth, in their present state of estrangement, he couldn't fathom why Napoleon would be distressful over anything connected with him. "Is he awake now?"

"Dozing, but I'm sure you would have little trouble waking him. Go right on in."

Illya gave the doctor a microscopic smile and opened the door quietly, slipping inside the room like a breeze. He stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at the gaunt and pasty-looking face of the man whose life he had saved and who had saved his life more times than either of them could remember. They had long ago even ceased verbal gratitude except for the most desperate of situations for there had been no need; it was simply accepted as what one did for one's partner.

And what did one do for a partnership that seemed to be in the throes of death? Illya wondered. At the time, he was doing his best to save Napoleon at the price of their partnership, he could rationalize that it was well worth the price. Now that he was standing amid the ashes of what he had done, there was only the hollowness of loss.

_I don't even have a sense that I want to fight for something that might be better off left to die on its own,_ he thought. _How can one care for something enough to drop everything to assure its safety, and yet have such negative feelings for that same something? And right now, I can't even bring myself to call that something by name—as if naming it would confirm its finality—_

His attention snapped back from internal reflection to his surroundings when he heard movement on the bed in front of him. Napoleon stared back at him, his brown eyes contrasting sharply with his pallor.

"What are you doing here?" the words sounded less raspy than they had the day before, but the tone was flat.

Assuming that any answer was better than none, Illya said softly, "I came to see how you were feeling."

"Well, you can probably tell that by what I look like."

Why did he feel that Napoleon was, even in his wretched condition, throwing the gauntlet at his feet, daring him to pick it up? Illya lowered his gaze. "I don't know what to say to you that won't escalate the animosity between us."

"Are you really thinking about taking the CEA Northeast position in Berlin?"

"Is it something I should be considering?"

"It's a hell of a promotion. Why shouldn't you consider it?"

A pause. "Perhaps I will."

"Look, Illya," Solo said, "don't turn it down on my account. God knows, you're more than qualified and your GRU buddies will be green with envy."

Kuryakin looked at Solo, his face a mask. Inside, however, he was a myriad of churning emotions. _How did you ever get the idea I was trying to one-up the GRU, Napoleon? Didn't you hear me when I said I was not ashamed of where I came from?_ "Then, I suppose I should be reporting back to New York. Unless there is something you need." _Like a friend—_

"I'll be fine here."

The phrase spoke volumes to the Russian. He was being dismissed, told to leave. _I don't need you—_ Illya straightened his posture and lifted his chin infinitesimally. "Then perhaps I shall see you upon your arrival if I do not leave for Berlin beforehand. In any event, I wish you a quick recovery and my condolences on the loss of your friend, Tony Simonelli." He retreated to the door before Solo had an opportunity to stop him; that is if Napoleon had a mind to do so.

Illya Kuryakin was on an eastbound flight to New York that very night, his traveling companion a steady supply of vodka martinis delivered by a pair of stewardesses who provided without comment on the reason for or the quantity of his alcohol consumption. He took a small measure of satisfaction that he walked off the plane steadier than anyone else, including the pilots.

* * *

><p>A message at reception then next morning when he reported in made Illya regret his hasty retreat from San Francisco. <em>Report to Dr. Pirelli as soon as possible<em>. Berlin was becoming more attractive with each passing encounter with the New York UNCLE personnel.

"Welcome back, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Pirelli greeted as the blond agent closed the door behind him. "I trust all is well at the Headquarters for UNCLE Northeast." The doctor could not help but notice the slight frown on his visitor's face.

"UNCLE Northeast is operational and secure," Kuryakin replied shortly.

"How is Mr. Solo?"

The frowned deepened almost infinitesimally. "On the mend."

"I understand it was touch-and-go for a while."

"You've obviously read the report."

"That's right."

"Why am I here then? I can't offer any more information than you already know."

"Let's call it a progress report. After all, it's been almost two months since your last visit."

"I'm aware of that. What is your point?"

Dr. Pirelli stood. "Let's go back in the back and get more comfortable. Have a drink perhaps."

"I would prefer not to."

"Of course you would prefer not to, but my invitation was not a request."

"I really don't have anything to say, doctor."

"So you already told me."

Illya scrutinized the psychiatrist with narrowed eyes.

"Look, Mr. Kuryakin, we can dance around this all day, but the point is you will be coming with me, and you will provide the information I ask for. And I don't have to tell you where this directive comes from."

The Russian agent took a deep breath. "Very well, but I should warn you, truth drugs make me sick to my stomach." He strode past the doctor and reached for the doorknob.

"What makes you think I'm going to give you a truth drug?"

Illya looked over his shoulder. "Will you get what you want from me without one?"

Pirelli stood beside Kuryakin. "That's up to you. This isn't an interrogation; I'm here to help you."

"And Waverly wants his illustrious field team back. What will he do, if your efforts fail to accomplish that?"

"He can't force two men to work together who shouldn't be together; not if he doesn't want to lose those agents completely."

Illya pulled open the door. "I'd like to be there when you tell him that. After you, Dr. Pirelli." He followed the doctor back the hallway to the room furnished as a den. "Is this for real?" he commented from the doorway.

"A little too extravagant for you? And you've been in the West how long?"

Illya went inside and stood at the overstuffed leather couch, shaking his head. "Evidently not long enough. This looks more like something Mr. Solo would be comfortable with."

"I have another room, more austere, if you prefer."

His answer was a _what-do-you-think-?_ expression.

"As you wish, Mr. Kuryakin. Follow me." The pair went to the next doorway and the doctor opened the door. The furniture was the same style found all over Headquarters, complete with couch, desk and several upholstered chairs. "My office."

"Ah, this is more like it," Illya said, sarcasm evident in his voice. "Clinical, but trying very hard not to be." He preceded the doctor into the room, sat down on the couch and looked up at his adversary. "Let the fatuity begin."

Dr. Pirelli went to his desk and picked up a file folder. "I have to admit, Mr. Kuryakin, you're good. You say a lot, and yet you say almost nothing. Little wonder why you're one of Mr. Waverly's top agents." The doctor walked slowly towards the couch, folder in hand.

"My skills serve me well. And I don't respond to flattery."

"Oh, come on now, we all want to hear that we've done a good job, performed at least to expectations." He grinned down at his patient. "Got the bad guys," he added with a gesture.

"No, it's not flattery," Illya said with sudden realization. "You're trying to distract me from something else." He stood up. "I think this session is over."

Pirelli sighed heavily. "You guys in Section Two always make my job more difficult than it needs to be. But I do understand you." He extended his hand for Kuryakin to shake. "No hard feelings."

Illya looked down at the hand. "And that's a very clumsy attempt, doctor. What do you have in your hand?"

"Just a file folder, Mr. Kuryakin," he said as he lifted the manila file in the other hand.

Before Kuryakin could react, a fine white puff of gas discharged from the folder and engulfed his face. "_Chto - ? Chert voz__ʹ__mi!_ (What the-? Dammit!)" he sputtered, hands waving, as he tried to disperse the cloud from around his head.

"Calm down, Illya," the doctor said quietly. "The gas will have no side effects, but you won't be able to resist doing what I ask of you. I want you to sit down now and relax."

The blond agent lowered his arms and haltingly sank down on the couch while Dr. Pirelli pulled a chair over to sit facing him. The doctor was somewhat puzzled to see a hint of trepidation in the blue eyes that looked back at him. "Before we start, let me put your mind at ease. You won't be made to do anything you truly don't want to do. Do you believe what I'm telling you?"

There was a moment's hesitation. "No," he said simply.

"Why is that?" Pirelli asked softly.

"I am suspicious of everything I don't have verifiable knowledge of."

The doctor sat back in his seat. "Did UNCLE teach you that?"

"My life experiences taught me."

"I'll bet they did." Pirelli did not know Kuryakin's life story, but what little he did know, more than convinced him that his patient was truthful in his answer.

"Did you enjoy your work with the new Head of Section One, Northeast?"

A look of disappointment formed on the Russian's face. "Not what I was expecting."

"Really? I thought some time in your old Headquarters would have been nostalgic at the very least."

"Buchmeister wanted to keep Berlin as his main office and downgrade the others. Quite different from the way Harry Beldon ran Northeast."

"How was that?"

"Harry had offices all over Europe. He was never in one office for any great length of time. I just assumed it would be the same with Buchmeister."

"I understand you were Beldon's protégé in your earlier days."

"He was my mentor. He seemed to understand the—difficulties—I was having, being Soviet and, therefore, distrusted. He made my assimilation a little easier."

"Discovering that he was a THRUSH double agent must have been a blow to you."

Illya shook his head dejectedly. "I don't understand how I failed to suspect something."

"He fooled a great many people, including Mr. Waverly himself. You have no cause to blame yourself. Tell me more about the trip to Northeast."

"I was looking forward to spending some time in all of Harry's former offices."

"But it turned out to be just Berlin. Not fond of the place, are you?"

"I despise Berlin. It's a constant reminder of the animosity between my country and the rest of the world, among other things—"

Though Pirelli was curious about "other things", he was certain they had little to do with the situation he was trying to rectify. "Did you think much about your partner while you were in Berlin?"

"It was difficult not to. We've worked together a long time."

"Why didn't you try to contact him?"

"It was his place to initiate contact."

"Why?"

Illya hesitated so long that Dr. Pirelli thought he was going to have to prod him again. "Protocol," the Russian said softly.

_He thinks he's the one who's been wronged,_ the doctor thought. Time to change the subject. "Let's talk about Mr. Solo's rescue. Who told you he was in trouble?"

"Heather McNabb, but I had a disquieting sense before that there was something not right."

"So it didn't take much convincing to bring you back to look for him."

"I would have come if they had ordered me to stay away."

"Why?"

"My partner was in trouble and needed me," was the succinct reply, spoken with absolute conviction.

"What did you find when you went looking?"

Illya grimaced and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "The situation was gruesome," he began with revulsion. "They had been left there to starve to death. The agent with Napoleon had been shot, and was dead. Judging from the smell and the condition of the body, the time of death must have been at least three days earlier. Napoleon was unconscious, in critical condition."

"What were your thoughts when you saw Mr. Solo like that?"

"That I had to get him out of there."

"It was more than that, I'm sure," Pirelli pressured gently.

"I was afraid we were too late—that Napoleon was dead," Kuryakin said with distress.

"That possibility weighs very heavily on you," the doctor concluded, satisfied when the blond head nodded slowly. "One might even say that it's a genuine fear for you, isn't it?" Again, a nod. "Without more digging, I'll venture a guess that, in your life, you've lost a fair number of people you cared about."

"Too many," the blond agent murmured, his head bowed.

"And look where you are: in a profession where life expectancy is measured in missions. Well, we won't look too deeply into that." Pirelli sat forward in his chair. "Let's move to a different situation. Mr. Solo told me that you admitted to a certain pleasure when you had to torture him under the guise of Colonel Nexor. Tell me about that."

Illya lifted his head, a look of deep regret weighing heavily on his features. "I don't know why I should have had those feelings."

"Tell me what you felt."

"Satisfaction."

"Were you deriving that satisfaction from inflicting pain on Mr. Solo?"

"No."

"Where did this sense of satisfaction come from?"

"The deception was going so well. They all believed I was Nexor; Gurnius was grinning like a fool. I was in control of the situation."

"But you were torturing your partner."

"I would have done anything to trade places with him," Illya objected. "What I had to do tore into my soul."

"What about at Dabree's compound?"

"It was worse."

"Why?"

"Napoleon didn't believe me when I told him why I had to do it. Dabree was going to use her brain-kill machine on him if I didn't. I was trying to save his life."

"I think Mr. Solo might be trying to cover his guilt for acting on his desire to push UNCLE aside in his mind for a few days, which then led him to capture and revealing where you were."

"He knows we can never push aside who we are."

"Do you blame him for trying to?"

"No, I've often wanted to do the same."

"Do you blame him for revealing where you were?"

"No. There was no way he could have resisted Dabree's truth serum."

"I want to know about the anger you feel towards your partner."

The blond UNCLE agent sighed heavily, as he again tried to resist answering.

"Tell me, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Pirelli urged. "There's no getting past this unless you admit to yourself how you feel."

"I've accepted that Napoleon is a much more dynamic individual than I'll ever be; and I don't hold that against him in any way. But, I'm angry at inequities between us that shouldn't be there anymore, his lack of faith in my abilities, and his offhanded defiance even when he knows I'm right. I'm angry that he lied to me about his feelings from the Gurnius Affair. I'm angry at myself for being angry. And I feel conflicted with myself, too. There is no one who has ever been closer to me in my life; no one I've ever allowed to become this close."

"I'm going to help you and Mr. Solo mend your relationship." _If I can just figure out exactly how to do that,_ Dr. Pirelli thought. It was apparent to him that The Gurnius Affair and Dr. Dabree had merely brought to the surface and amplified feelings that had been there throughout their partnership. "I'm going to spray a light mist against your face which will counteract the gas, and you'll be free to go. What we've talked about here will slip from your conscious memory like a dream, but you will be more receptive to the idea of talking when I ask to see you again. Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I understand," Kuryakin answered agreeably, then flinched slightly as the aerosol touched his face. He blinked a few times and looked up at the doctor. "What were we talking about?"

Dr. Pirelli stood up. "I believe it was your stubbornness. In any case you're free to go."

Illya stood quickly before the doctor changed his mind. "I'd like to say it was a pleasure, doctor—" He shrugged.

"It was no barrel of laughs for me either. Keep in mind, we're not done here."

"We may very well be done, doctor. I'm on my way up to Mr. Waverly's office to discuss my permanent transfer to the Berlin office as Chief Enforcement Officer, Northeast."

Pirelli looked at him in amazement. "Berlin? When did you decide that?"

"Why should it matter to you if I decide to accept a promotion?"

The doctor quickly composed himself. "You just surprised me. I was under the impression you were satisfied with your current position."

"Situations change. Perhaps it's time to move on. Until next time, if there is one." The blond Russian was out the door so quickly, Pirelli could have easily been convinced he had run out as fast as he could.

* * *

><p>"The CEA Northeast position working out of Berlin," Waverly said puffing on his pipe. "Yes, Ulrich informed me that he offered it to you. He was impressed with your stalwartness. Your <em>Unerschütterlichkeit<em> Unflappability), he called it."

Kuryakin lowered his head so his boss would not see his smugly satisfied expression. "I have first-hand experience in the workings of the German mind, sir. Herr Buchmeister believed he understood me because of his experience with the Soviets. We 'understand' each other now."

"And you feel you would be more of an asset to the Berlin office than here in New York."

Illya looked up and directly into the older man's face. "At the risk of sounding pompous, sir, I would be an asset anywhere I am posted."

"That's not what I asked, though you are correct in your own assessment."

"Determining where I can be of most use would seem to be a matter for you and Herr Buchmeister."

"And I told Ulrich that the decision is on hold for the moment until other matters are settled."

Illya looked at Waverly with narrowed eyes. "What other matters are you referring to, sir?"

"You know very well what matters, Mr. Kuryakin. In the meantime, I have a two-to-four week mission that has your qualifications written all over it, but you may need some time to prepare. How's your Arabic and Hebrew?"

"A little rusty, but I should be able to polish it in a day or two with some help. What's the mission?"

"You'll be spending the next four weeks in the Middle East gathering information for the United Nations on Israel's annexation of East Jerusalem. Most importantly, we need to make sure THRUSH isn't interfering in the situation, and that the information the UN is asking for is what is truly happening in the region."

"I thought we didn't get involved with squabbles between nations, sir."

"The United Nations Security Council is considering a resolution on the matter. What they need is reliable and unbiased information to make a knowledgeable decision. Secretary-General Thant contacted me directly with the request. It is his opinion that UNCLE with its reputation for neutrality is the only organization that can handle an assignment like this. I'm sure you're aware how volatile this situation is with countries like the United States and the Soviet Union feeling pressure from their allies to act."

"If the UN can provide me with some native speakers to help me brush up on the languages, I can leave in a day or two."

Waverly nodded. "Excellent. We'll discuss the other matter on your return."

Kuryakin left his superior's office somewhat dissatisfied about "the other matter". He was sure he was being manipulated, given a period of time to consider all the ramifications. He didn't want to think about leaving New York, leaving the few friends he had, and the partner who didn't want to be a partner anymore. Was it possible that Waverly had seen the deception in the deportment of his number two agent? Or had Dr. Pirelli somehow deduced that Berlin was not a place the Russian would choose to go?

Illya went to his office and shut the door. It occurred to him that while he had full recall of entering and leaving Dr. Pirelli's office, he couldn't seem to remember much about the time in between. What was even more confusing was that he knew he should be concerned about it, but he honestly felt no apprehension. Besides: what was done was done and it seemed to have no consequence either way. He had more important things to occupy his time right now.

* * *

><p><em>Four weeks later.<em>

Dr. Pirelli greeted Napoleon as he entered the waiting room. "Good to see you, Mr. Solo. Have you been released by medical?"

The CEA nodded slowly. "Yesterday."

"Excellent. Why don't you follow me and we'll get started?"

Silently, Napoleon followed Dr. Pirelli to the plush study and sat down on the couch. "Before we start, I want to extend my condolences for Agent Simonelli. I understand you and he went back to your Survival School days."

"Thanks. We weren't that close, but he was a good agent. I'll miss him."

"I don't doubt that for a moment. Do you want to talk about him?"

Solo shifted his weight in a gesture that belied his answer. "No."

"Something about his death bothers you and your body language says you do want to talk about it."

There was a long pause before Napoleon began, as if he needed to fight against himself to put the experience into words. "I watched Tony die right there in front of me, and I couldn't do anything to help him. He'd just transferred from Rome; had a little over a year before forty, and he wanted his last year to be a great one. What a waste," he sighed, his voice almost breaking. There was another sigh, longer and deeper.

"Being in the cell with him after he died must have been horrific as well."

Solo shook his head and his hands curled into fists. "I've been around death nearly my whole adult life. The smells of blood and decay are nothing new."

"But this wasn't the body of an enemy."

"No. And what made it worse, sometimes I could swear it was Illya laying there, staring at me. Dead—"

"Hallucinations from acute dehydration. It wasn't Mr. Kuryakin."

"I know, but it could have been."

"It could have just as easily turned out very differently as well. Agent Simonelli was not Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon nodded, agreeing. "No, their methods weren't at all alike."

"I'm sure that you're aware that Mr. Kuryakin was largely responsible for finding you."

Solo snorted a harsh laugh. "Yeah, the Old Man made sure I knew that."

"Especially after you woke up and told Mr. Kuryakin to leave you alone," Dr. Pirelli finished. "He sat by your side for over three days until you regained consciousness."

"Well, you know, doc, maybe I wanted him to feel the way I did when he kicked me out of his hospital room after he was wounded."

"Listen to yourself, Napoleon. You're sounding like a vindictive child; returning tit-for-tat."

Solo sat forward, his head in his hands. "I know. God, I know. It's just that I've been so damned _pissed_ at him since he laid that bit on me about feeling pleasure while he was pretending to be Nexor. Even though he was completely self-debasing while he was telling me. I even felt irritated that he had this grand vacation planned for himself and I was left to my own devices."

"You felt a little abandoned."

Napoleon looked up. "Yeah. Stupid, huh? Especially since I'm usually the one walking off with the girl, bidding _him _adieu. I wonder, sometimes, why he puts up with me." Then he chuckled. "Well, maybe I do know why."

"Enlighten me."

"A long time ago, near the beginning of our partnership, he said something that's stayed with me. He said, 'You are _zadushevny_ to me, my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.' (From my story "A Russian's Heart and Soul") When I found out what that word meant, I almost cried."

"What does it mean?"

"It means 'one behind the soul'. Closer than a brother; closer than just about anything else. I feel the same way about him."

"Aren't you still allowed to be angry at him? Families quarrel, after all."

"Not like this. All I seem to want to do, even when I just think about him, is put my fist through his face."

Dr. Pirelli folded his arms. "I think you both have been misinterpreting your anger for something else; and it's largely because when we become adults we express two completely different emotions the same way. When we are children, and are hurt emotionally, we cry; but when we are hurt as adults, we express it as anger. Everything you and Mr. Kuryakin have been telling me; and yes, Mr. Kuryakin has been talking; everything points to emotional pain. Neither of you betrayed the other, but you've hurt each other emotionally."

"So what do we do about it?"

Dr. Pirelli smiled. "I believe you may already have the solution, Mr. Solo. I should have seen it before."

Napoleon looked up at the doctor questioningly. "You mean a physical fight?"

"Why not? I seem to recall a number of your agent partners spar regularly. You and Mr. Kuryakin do not."

"Well, we manage to get into enough fist-fights as part of the job."

"Perhaps you should consider it. You're different people, you and your partner. There's bound to be friction; and if there isn't, one of you is swallowing your displeasure. That can only be maintained so long. I'm going to talk to Mr. Waverly about arranging a 'clear-the-air' match between you two as soon as Mr. Kuryakin gets back from his mission. In the meantime, make some mental notes about why you're going to put your fist into your friend's face." Dr. Pirelli extended his hand. "I'll let you know when we're ready."

Napoleon stood to accept the hand, but he was not at all sure beating his 'behind the soul' friend into a bloody pulp was going to solve any problem.

* * *

><p>The first item Illya found waiting for him upon his return from the Middle East was a note on his desk ordering him to Dr. Pirelli's office. He'd been pleased with the overall success of his mission and in a good mood until opening that small folded sheet of paper. Irritated, he phoned down to the psychiatrist's office to arrange a time, only to be doubly irritated when told he was expected immediately.<p>

He shrugged his jacket back onto his shoulders and headed to the elevator, ready to confront the doctor with a full-blown Russian snit. Again he found the object of his discontent in the waiting room, casually reading a magazine.

Perelli looked up at the blond agent and the exaggerated severe expression. "Mr. Kuryakin, would you like me to tell you why Section Two agents avoid my department like the plague?"

The Russian scowled even more. "I know why. We despise being treated like laboratory rats."

"Well, you certainly have that bit of Party-Line crap down pat." Dr. Pirelli stood in front of the deadly UNCLE agent, a man who had taken more lives than he could count, a man who bravely walked into hell if necessity required it. "Come on, you know the drill."

Kuryakin followed the taller man to his office and sat on the couch. Pirelli pulled his desk chair across the room to sit opposite.

"To answer the question, Mr. Kuryakin, you hate us because we try to make you think about the things you'd rather bury deep inside of you. The resulting detritus piles up and eats away at the noble men you are. Why do you think Section Two agents are required to leave the field at forty? Do you honestly have yourself deluded enough to believe that it's strictly physical?

"Think about the intelligence agents in your own county; what happens to them when the things they've had to do throughout their careers can no longer be eased by a regular, liberal soaking in vodka?"

Though the doctor was speaking, Illya seemed to hear Napoleon's voice from months ago, urging him to excise the scarred-over wounds from his past and allow the caring of friendship to heal them finally. Well, he had, and look where it got them both. "The dead feel nothing," he replied evenly.

"Is that the future you see for yourself?"

"Of course. We all die eventually. It is the way of things. And for an UNCLE agent, it tends to come sooner rather than later."

"Is that the hope of UNCLE agents? Is that what _you_ hope for?"

"When one considers that upon leaving the field, the contract for my services between UNCLE and _Sovetskiy Soyuz_ will be completed. My only choices then are to return or defect, neither of which I want to do and both of which will probably end in my eventual death as a traitor to my country. I would much rather my death wore a more meaningful distinction."

"Okay, Mr. Kuryakin, so between now and your inevitable, but meaningful death, wouldn't you rather that your life also wore a meaningful distinction?"

"My life is my work."

"But you kill people for a living; there is little nobility to be found there."

"There is nobility in the cause for which I fight and for which I have sworn to give my life, if necessary. I did not have that when my cause was the welfare of the Soviet Union."

"Why?"

"UNCLE is dedicated to the preservation of world peace. No single country can claim that as their ultimate goal."

"Is your work for UNCLE the only thing that gives your life meaningful distinction? What about your relationships? Friendships, for example?"

"Relationships are exploitable weaknesses."

"How?"

Illya sat forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. "I can't do this."

"What can't you do, Illya?" The doctor said softly.

The head came up and the blue eyes looked directly at the doctor. "So, it's first names now, is it?"

"I thought it might help. Keep going, you have my interest."

"I know you want me to talk about Napoleon, about our partnership, how I feel. There are some things that can't be put into words and some that shouldn't be."

"So, it's first names now, is it?" Dr. Pirelli said with a smile.

A small frown touched the corners of Kuryakin's mouth. "Don't be impertinent."

"Sorry. How about if I give you a word then? _Zadushevny._ Did I pronounce it correctly?"

The Russian nodded slowly. "Napoleon's been here before me, I see."

"Mr. Solo said the word means 'one behind the soul'. That's a rich metaphor."

Illya shrugged. "We Russians have our moments."

"I'd be humbled to the core if someone used that word to describe what they meant to me."

"And you would be humbled, doctor, in more ways than one." The blond agent stood up from the couch and began to pace. "In this business, friendship often carries a high price. The things we sometimes must do. The things we can never do. Behind the soul is a dangerous place to be."

"How so?"

"The mission is paramount. Do I sacrifice a friend for the sake of the mission? And if I do, how do I live with that betrayal of trust? Better to have no friends and grieve less."

"Humans are gregarious creatures; they need to form relationships."

"In Soviet Intelligence, we are told to form no friendships; that your friends will ultimately betray you."

"Which probably explains why the rate of alcoholism in the Soviet Union is so high. How much more have you been drinking since you and Mr. Solo parted ways?"

Illya's expression said: _How did you know?_

"Like it or not, friendship with your partner satisfies needs in you that you don't even fully realize. He is probably the only person who has seen you at your absolute worst, and at your absolute best, just as you have seen him. Who else can you trust to keep your darkest moments from driving you insane? Who else would share in your most glorious moments without jealousy?"

Kuryakin sat again and shook his head.

"I know about what happened at Dr. Dabree's compound. And I read the case file on the Gurnius Affair."

"Then you know it's not a matter of me trusting Napoleon. How does one share dark moments when they chip away at trust already shaken to its foundation?"

"Are you so sure the foundation has been irreparably damaged?"

Illya stood up and began to pace once more. "This is pointless. We are both at a place where all we want to do when we see each other is beat the hell out of the other."

"That's what your partner said. In a way, it makes sense. I've seen partners spar in the gym, and they sometimes really inflict some damage. But, I've noticed too that those who do go one-on-one like that on occasion tend to spend less time in my office than those who don't. The fisticuffs seem to clear the air of conflicts between the partners that they can't express in words. Sort of applied testosterone."

"Napoleon is far more angry than I am."

The doctor smiled. "No, he's not. You just hide it better, even from yourself. The GRU taught you well." The doctor laid his hand on the blond agent's shoulder. "I already have Waverly's sanction on this, and the gym has agreed to keep out the spectators, except for two Section Three agents to prevent you two from killing each other. It's time to clear the air."

* * *

><p>Illya looked up from the bench where he sat tying the laces of a pair of well-worn sneakers.<p>

"Barefoot, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Pirelli said, observing that the blond-haired man's eyes were focused instead, over his left shoulder at Napoleon behind him. "You'll be on the mat."

Kuryakin shrugged slightly and his gaze returned to his feet. "No problem," he said softly as his pulled off the tattered cloth shoes. He stood up and followed the other two men after they passed; noting Solo's stare had never wavered from him, either.

The gym was devoid of occupants, save the manager of the gym and two men from Section Three, all similarly attired. Dr. Pirelli walked across the mat and addressed the manager. "Thanks for arranging this, Roger."

The sturdily built man nodded. "Glad to do it, doctor. This has been long overdue."

"_Holy Christ!_" Napoleon declared with irritation. "Is there _anyone_ in this HQ who doesn't know our business?"

Pirelli looked up at Napoleon. "I think there's a secretary who just started last week who doesn't know a thing." He smiled at Napoleon's grimace. "The price of notoriety. When Solo and Kuryakin, who spend a lot of time in each other's company, suddenly are seen anywhere but in each other's company, it's a topic of speculative conversation."

Illya walked past Napoleon and turned to face his partner. "Enough talking. Let's get this over with."

"You're on," Pirelli said. He and Roger, the gym manager, moved off the mat to leave an unencumbered space for the sparring.

Illya stood opposite Napoleon, his posture relaxed. "Who's going to start this?"

Solo shook his head. "I guess we can flip a coin." He brushed his hand along his hip where a pocket would have been if he had not been wearing sweatpants, and gestured to the gym manager. "Toss me a quarter, Roger." The gym manager flicked a coin in Napoleon's direction and the agent caught it.

"Is that one of your double-headed coins?" Illya asked sternly.

Napoleon snorted a harsh laugh. "Good God, Illya, you're an untrusting son-of-a-bitch. Come and see for yourself." He held the coin up for the Russian to see.

Illya took several steps forward and Solo showed him both sides of the coin. "Satisfied?"

Kuryakin tilted his head forward in a very slight affirmative gesture.

Napoleon prepared to flip the coin into the air. "Call it."

The instant the coin left the CEA's fingers, Illya dropped to a crouch, arced his right leg towards Solo and called out "Heads!" The taller agent's feet were swept out from under him, and Napoleon's hip hit the mat with slap and a grunt. The blond agent stood over him. "_That's_ for lying to me _and_ to yourself when you said it didn't matter," he said, his voice low in his throat, deep, almost ominous sounding.

Solo looked up from the mat at the suddenly, very Slavic-looking blond-haired man. He expected to see belligerence, but the expression was bland. He smiled; making certain Illya saw his anger as stood up slowly. "Clever. That was very clever. I think I understand the rules now." He approached, but Kuryakin made no effort to retreat.

He threw a punch at his adversary's head, and when Illya moved to block it, he countered with a swift fist in the stomach. The Russian doubled over with an audible moan, fell to his knees, then caught himself with one hand, cradling his middle with the other. "_That's_ for frying my brain twice in less than a month!" he spat down at panting figure.

With nearly blinding speed, Illya reached up, grabbed Napoleon's tee-shirt with both hands and pulled/half-flung him down on the mat. "_That's_ for throttling me when I was trying to save your life!" the blond agent growled back, still panting from the pain of the stomach punch.

Solo tackled Kuryakin from their mutual-crouched position, and then pulled himself up onto one elbow. "_That's_ for giving me signs Cochise couldn't read!"

Illya drove the heel of his hand upwards, clipping Napoleon's jaw, forcing the teeth to cut into the tongue. While Solo gingerly explored his bleeding tongue, Kuryakin slithered to his feet a respectful distance from his partner. "_That's_ for being so dense that you couldn't translate 'quiet game' into Italian."

Napoleon looked up at the blond Russian. "_Guioco piano_ (In reference to The Guioco Piano Affair, season 1, written by Alan Caillou)," he said thoughtfully, then frowned. "Chess." He stood up slowly. "Pulled that one out of your ass, didn't you?"

"It was supposed to save your pompous ass," Illya retorted bitterly, but then just stood watching as the other man weighed it in his mind.

Finally Solo nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll give you that one." He held out his hand. Kuryakin looked at the hand with narrowed eyes for a moment, and then stepped forward to accept the handshake. Instead, he got a fist on the jaw that dimmed his consciousness for a moment until the jar of his backside hitting the mat restored it somewhat. Through a buzzing in his head, he heard, "_That's_ for insubordination when you ordered Witherspoon to put me on the chopper."

Illya held his jaw, manipulating it, until his mind cleared enough for him to stand once again. Then he feigned more fuzziness than he actually felt. "I wouldn't have to be insubordinate if you'd get it through your thick skull that while I may not have your devious charm, I _can_ talk my way out of a difficult situation." The ploy worked for Napoleon took a step towards him. In one explosive burst of movement, Illya sucker punched Solo below the sternum.

With a long moan, the CEA crumpled to the mat, instinctively curling around his own midsection. Illya waited until his partner's breathing evened out before he bent over. "Did that hurt?" he asked mockingly.

Solo opened one eye. "Yes, goddammit, that hurt."

The lips that so seldom smiled enough to show any teeth broke into a broad grin. "Good," he said, purposely accentuating his Russian intonation. "_That's_ for pulling rank on me as if I were some greenstick agent. I was GRU before you knew what UNCLE was."

Napoleon struggled to his knees. "I never pull rank on you."

Illya watched with a small frown as Solo pulled himself to his feet. "The hell you don't," he said, and crossed his arms.

"I'm used to giving orders. I'm responsible for all of Section Two, New York. Do you really think I 'lord' that over you?"

There was a slight shrug. "Only constantly."

In a half-hearted, open-armed gesture of apology, Napoleon strode forward. "Well, gee, Illya. I'm sorry. I had no idea." He punched Illya again on the jaw, and this time, he didn't hold back on the force.

Kuryakin hit the mat prone with a strangling grunt of pain, cradling his lower jaw with both hands, as he tried not to make any other audible sound.

Napoleon bent over, almost low enough to grasp an arm. "Did _that _hurt? Hmm?"

Illya rolled over onto his hip, his hand still holding his jaw. "No," he muttered stubbornly, but his voice sounded thin.

Solo almost chuckled out loud. "You are such a liar, Kuryakin."

"You hit me in the exact same spot—Are you trying to break my jaw? Or knock me out?"

"So I can put up with your charming disposition while you have to eat through a straw? Or stand here waiting until you wake up again? No, _that_ was a well-deserved one for being an idiot and going back to Dabree's compound _alone_ to destroy her brain-kill machine. And then almost getting _yourself_ killed in the bargain. Didn't talk your way out of that one very well, did you?"

"One person had a better chance of getting the job done. I would have just had to rescue you again." He sighed heavily, but only partially due to his aching jaw. "But I will concede that I didn't fully consider the THRUSH turning the tables on me." He stood up very slowly. "I've lost track: whose turn is it?"

Solo looked at Illya intently. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Haven't you two had enough of beating up on each other?" Pirelli called from the side of the room.

The two UNCLE agents looked over and spoke in unison. "Shut up, Pirelli!"

"Where were we?" Kuryakin said softly, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"It's your turn."

Illya looked thoughtful for a moment, then threw a punch at Napoleon, which he expected to be blocked. He caught the blocking arm and used the momentum of it and his own body to flip Solo onto his back. "_That's_ for not trusting my judgment when you don't have all the facts. Or any other time, for that matter."

Napoleon threw himself at Illya's midline, tackling him just short of the edge of the mat. He got up quickly. "That's for kicking me out of your hospital room like I was some sort of annoying stranger!"

The blond Russian threw himself at Solo's ankles, shouting. "That's for _being_ annoying!" He stood up, panting from the exertion. "I was unconscious for three days and the first thing you did when I woke up was pick a fight."

Solo punched Kuryakin on the right cheek. "_That's_ for trying to end our fight by dying on me, you gutless Cossack!"

Illya returned the punch, also on the right cheek. "That's for getting yourself into a situation where you nearly died from lack of food and water, you bumbling _Amerikanskaya!_"

The image of Tony Simonelli flashed momentarily across Napoleon's consciousness. The CEA of UNCLE New York stared back at his Number 2 and knew then why he had been so angry for so long. He walked up to the blond agent and slapped him across the face with all of his strength. "_That's_ for trying to make me think I want to do this alone," he accused harshly as Illya stumbled back from the force of the blow.

Kuryakin regained his equilibrium and stared back, stubbornly refusing to cover his stinging cheek. And in that moment, he too understood his anger. He frowned slightly and approached Napoleon. With all the intensity of his own outrage he returned the slap, back-handed. "No—_this_ is for _you_ trying to make _me_ think I want to do this alone."

The pair stared at each other for long moments, sweat-soaked, bleeding, and emotionally spent until Napoleon lifted his hand to rub his cheek. "Wow, you have quite a back-hand there."

"I'm much stronger than I look." He lifted his hand to his own cheek in recognition of his partner's strength.

Napoleon nodded. "I know you are. It's one of the reasons we function well as a team. They misjudge you."

"Well, I wouldn't be able to do that if you didn't distract them."

Solo sighed heavily. "You know, Illya, I really don't want to work alone. I've grown accustomed to having a top agent at my back. And you're the best there is."

Illya cleared his throat self-consciously. "Napoleon, I absolutely detest everything about Berlin, including Buchmeister. And I have no desire to endure the headaches associated with being a CEA. I don't want to work alone either, and you're the best there is." A mischievous grin touched his lips. "Or so you tell me."

Napoleon chuckled for a moment; then became serious. "I should have admitted to you how much The Gurnius Affair affected me. It made me desperately want to get away from everything UNCLE for a while, to just put it out of my mind. Yeah, I had my doubts about the woman Flostone had transformed herself into, but I talked myself out of listening to my instincts because I wanted to forget about how we live most of the time. You have no idea how much I regret that mistake for what it put you through."

"I understand now, Napoleon, thanks to the input of our good doctor, Pirelli. I should have been more forthcoming to you as well. Doing what I did under the guise of Nexor tore into me like nothing ever had before. And I didn't enjoy it; I would have gladly, _willingly_ switched places with you. At the time, I was too deep into my own remorse to understand what I was really feeling. And then, to do it all over again. The best I could hope for was that you would be alive so you _could_ hate me."

"I could never hate you, Illya. I know and I understand that you did what you had to do to save both the mission and me, both times. Also input from Pirelli. Though, I'm surprised he was able to get as much as he did from you."

Kuryakin nodded pensively. "I am too." Then he smiled. "Actually, I think he drugged me."

"Well, I _know_ he drugged me."

"Devious bastards, aren't they?"

Pirelli walked onto the mat to stand between them. "How else are we going to heal you guys? Your job does more than bruise and break you physically, you know. So gentlemen, are we done here?"

Napoleon raised his eyebrows at his friend. "What do you say, Illya? Are we done here?"

Again, there was a small smile, but it spoke loudly to Solo. "Yes, my friend, we're done. And just for the record, I could never hate you either."

Napoleon clapped his hands together, clasping them. "Well, when you put it like that, I guess the drinks are on me."

"Napoleon, where are we going to go looking like this?"

The CEA winked. "I think I know just the place."

"I'm not going to have to get dressed up, am I? Black eyes do not go well with black ties."

Napoleon ran an eye over his partner's attire: a torn, sweaty and bloody tee-shirt and an equally decrepit pair of sweatpants. "Any change in your attire is a step up, but your usual casual black turtleneck shirt will be just fine." He started towards the locker room with Illya not far behind. "You know, overall, that felt pretty good. Maybe we should do that more often; really does help clear the air." He pulled on the door handle of the locker room.

Illya caught the door as Solo stepped through. "I agree. I think once a week should be sufficient."

Napoleon turned around to face his partner, incredulous. "You're kidding, aren't you?

The corners of the Russian's mouth turned up and the blue eyes held a hint of mischief. "Well, you _are_ insufferable."

"_I'm_ insufferable? Who else would put up with your moods, _Your Grace_?" Napoleon walked towards the showers again with his partner following.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"I think it suits you. Heather agrees with me."

A look of horror filled the normally unreadable features. "You told Heather?"

"Of course, Illya, and she told Mitzi, and Mitzi told—"

"Napoleon!" Kuryakin interrupted angrily. "I'll drag you back out to that gym and this time I won't be easy on you!"

"Don't get your heritage into a snit. I'm kidding. Damn, you're touchy. I think the ladies here would find you being a high class Russian prince terribly sexy."

"They already have enough to talk about where you're concerned. I prefer to be left out of the gossip pool, if you don't mind." He caught Napoleon's arm. "Speaking of which, did you _really_ refer to me a 'goddamn little godless Commie prick' to Waverly's face?"

Solo cleared his throat embarrassedly. "Well, I was mad that you had put in for a transfer to Northeast, and I guess I let my anger get the best of me."

Illya smiled that quirky little smile which always meant trouble for the one receiving it. "Wow! You are so lucky he didn't bust you down to Section Three."

"How did you know about that anyway?"

The Russian pulled a towel from the cabinet beside the showers and pushed past the American. "I have my sources. Only one thing I don't quite understand is how I can be damned by a god, when I'm a godless Communist. I believe the phrase is known as an oxymoron, isn't it? Or does is it just have to do with the last two syllables?" Illya smirked and began to lather the shampoo on his head.

Napoleon smiled fondly at the speaker of the glib and wondered fleetingly if once a week might not be often enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

Illya was completely taken aback by the bar Napoleon had chosen for their post-clear-the-air- brawl drink. "You _know_ about this place?" he asked incredulously.

"Tovarisch, I am a very cosmopolitan man-about-town. I know about every legit watering hole in Manhattan," Napoleon responded smugly. "I even know about a majority of the non-legit ones," he added with an undeniable smirk underlying his tone.

It was true this particular jazz club, "Two Beat in the Pocket", was located in Little Italy on Canal Street just off Mulberry. So it was likely more in Solo's general "entertaining zone" than a locale in the Village would be. Yet still Illya was absolutely amazed his sophisticated partner had any familiarity with such a downscale "watering hole" at all.

"Come on, let's go inside. It's too cold to just stand here," Napoleon suggested as he shivered slightly from the brisk wind that was currently blowing.

Draping an arm about the shorter man's shoulders, Solo propelled his partner through the door of the establishment toward the bar at one end of the room.

"Hunny-bunny!" came a gleeful shout as a pretty young woman with hair more orange than red ran out from behind the bar and toward them. She quickly had Napoleon wrapped in a greeting embrace and was enthusiastically kissing seemingly every square inch of his face. Finally she pulled back to look at him. "You told me you were fully mended," she criticized lightly as she ran a careful finger along the darkening bruise that currently decorated his right cheek.

"In more ways than you know," Napoleon assured her with a ready smile.

"Barkeep," a patron called from the other end of bar, "another round here please."

"Perch, and stay roosted right here," Ginny charged Napoleon as she pushed him bodily down on a vacant barstool and then rushed back behind the wooden counter to fill the order from the vocal patron.

Illya watched the woman appreciatively as she moved. Dressed in a black button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, a low-slung pair of snugly fitted, hip-hugging, backside-clinging jeans, and a small black apron stenciled with a silver musical cleft that was tied sideways and slanted down on one side to thigh-level, he had to admit she was well worthy of observation.

"Who is that sexy little hurricane?" he queried of his partner as he seated himself on an empty stool beside the other man.

Napoleon chuckled low in his throat before replying simply, "Just someone I met on a mission."

"Why does that not surprise me?" questioned Illya with weary yet very tolerant censure.

Then the 'sexy little hurricane' was back, taking hold of Solo's face in one hand and clucking her tongue as she further inspected the bruise near his cheekbone. "You're much too cavalier with your storybook looks," she chastised him.

Illya couldn't suppress his snicker at that remark causing Ginny to look his way.

"Friend or foe?" she asked Solo in reference to the blond man.

Napoleon grinned mischievously, "Bit of both today. He is the creator of this bruise you are so taken with."

Ginny now looked Illya over. "That technicolor eye and gaudy mauve jaw a color-dubbing from Sir Lancelot here?" she asked him pointedly.

"Uh, I think the proper answer to that would be yes," hedged Illya a bit uncertainly.

Ginny now moved over to where Illya sat and, taking his face in hand, surveyed it as closely as she had previously Napoleon's.

"I imagine it's a measurement of the knightly friendly jousting philosophy?"

"Something like that," conceded Napoleon.

"Barkeep!" that insistent patron called again.

"Stay!" Ginny bid the two men as she scurried off behind the bar once more.

Illya's eyes were surreptitiously drawn to the energetic young woman's movements. "You going to introduce me?" he inquired of Napoleon.

"Maybe," teased his partner with a devilish smirk.

Ginny returned in short order, this time staying behind the bar as she spoke to them, fixing various cocktails with sure efficiency all the while.

"So, you and Sir Bors up for a little alcoholic medication?" she questioned Napoleon.

"Sir Bors?" repeated Illya with a blink.

Ginny grinned. "Faithful companion to Sir Lancelot in his quest for the Holy Grail."

"Whoa, Illya, she has you pegged!" Napoleon ribbed his partner. "And Sir Bors: that even sounds Russian!"

"Napoleon, you are begging for me to discolor that other cheek of yours," warned Illya.

"Illya: that your name?" interjected Ginny with a big smile.

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, at your service, Madame," Illya formally introduced himself because it damned well didn't seem that Napoleon was going to.

Ginny asked askance of Napoleon, "Did he just call me a madam?"

"He's polite but none too tactful," bantered back Napoleon, thoroughly enjoying the moment. "But he does like your outfit. He's been admiring it since we first came in."

The Russian glanced at his American friend at first with shock and then with retribution in his eyes.

Ginny only giggled and then introduced herself to Illya. "I'm Ginny Naline."

"Oh, the woman who contacted U.N.C.L.E. from San Francisco when my partner here went so carelessly missing."

Napoleon harrumphed a bit noisily, but Illya only ignored him as for the moment did the lovely barkeep.

Ginny nodded. "And then the dark prince had some of those avuncular types trace me so he could grant the prospect of this kingdom in the city."

Napoleon looked a bit embarrassed as he rambled out his justification. "Well, you needed a place to set yourself up, and the manager here was looking for a bartender, and you are a licensed mixologist, and Benny has told me he certainly doesn't mind that you keep the male patrons very interested in ordering cocktails."

"Honey on wheat bread," she stated with a warm smile at Napoleon.

"I have never known you to prefer such a sandwich," Illya whispered in some confusion to Solo.

"No, that's something she… uhm… never mind," the other man prevaricated in a soft aside.

"I'm glad you decided to take the job, Carrot-top," Napoleon now spoke to Ginny. "Benny's a good guy, though I admit the name of his place here still makes me do a double-take."

"Why's that?" asked Illya.

"Well… 'Two Beat in the Pocket'… Never understood using a verbal riff on… you know… pocket bingo, (New York slang, look up pocket billiards British slang meaning the same thing)" he spoke the last two words with _sotto voce_ emphasis, "as the name of a bar."

Illya was befuddled by the 'pocket bingo' colloquialism, but Ginny only started laughing uncontrollably. "Hunny-bunny, it's a jazz club," she emphasized, as if that explained it all.

"And jazz-babies are really into that sort of thing?" Solo questioned with widened eyes.

Ginny was laughing once more as Illya noted, "I think I'm missing something. 'Two Beat in the Pocket' is a perfectly acceptable form of jazz slang." So she pulled herself up by placing two hands on the surface of the bar and then leaned in toward the Russian and whispered directly into his ear. At her private revelation Illya required of her, "Surely, you're joking?" Ginny shook her head most definitively, and then Illya too burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"What?" asked Napoleon in obvious frustration.

"Napoleon," Illya finally managed to get past his mirth, "'two beat' is a slang term for a type of jazz rhythm where four-four time is given a bass drum grounding of only two beats."

"And 'in the pocket'," supplemented Ginny, "means the rhythm section of a group is perfectly in sync."

"Oh," murmured Napoleon as his face turned uncharacteristically beet red.

Illya and Ginny looked back at each other and both again erupted into ringing peals of laughter.

"Hey, it's not polite to gang up on a friend," complained Napoleon with a just the hint of a whine in his tone.

"So much for that reputation as knowledgeable man-about-town, my friend," countered Illya as he slapped the other man on the back.

"I don't guess you'll ever let me live this down, huh?" Napoleon surmised unhappily.

"Awww, hunny-bunny," Ginny consoled him with a quick kiss as she once more physically raised herself on the bar with her hands and leaned across the counter, this time toward Solo. "You'll always be my Sir Brave and Besotting. Drinks on me, my fine warriors," she then advised the two agents as she slipped back fully behind the counter and knowingly poured a scotch on the rocks for Napoleon and iced vodka neat for Illya.

"How did you…?" began Illya as she plunked the respective glass down before each guy.

"I'm a licensed mixologist, sky-eyes," Ginny informed Illya with a sly wink. "But," she continued as she turned her attention again to Napoleon, pulling him by the lapel of his jacket across the bar to her, "there is still plenty of mixing I want to try with you."

"Barkeep," the pesky patron at the other end of the bar called for her attention once more.

With a resigned sigh she flicked her tongue quickly over Napoleon's lips and then let loose her hold of his jacket to make her way down to the other side of the bar.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents were quiet for a moment and then Illya declared frankly to Napoleon, "I'll understand if you want to take her up on the offer."

Napoleon slowly shook his head. "Not tonight, Illya. Tonight is strictly for celebrating the resurrection of a partnership and the return of a true friend."

Illya smiled his signature half-smile as he raised his glass of vodka. "To partners and true friends!" he toasted, his voice deep with emotion.

"_Vchera, segodnya i zavtra!_(Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow) " added Napoleon with equal emotion and a signature smile of his own as he too raised his glass in toast.

End


End file.
